THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


From  the  collection  of 
Julius  Doerner,  Chicago 
Purchased,  1918. 


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THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

ILLUSTRATED 

VOL.  I. 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
Cljc  liitfccrsiOc  p>vc03,  Camlmoge 


Copyright,  1851,  1855,  1858,  1863,  1865,  1866,  1867,  1868,  186!),  1871,  1872,  18 
1871,  1875,  1876,  1877,  1878, 

Bv  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


Copyright,  1871), 

By  HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  & CO. 


All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge , Mass. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  & Co. 


1 s 


rl 


v.  I 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  I. 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Prelude  ....... 

Hymn  to  the  Night  . . . . . 

A Psalm  of  Life  ..... 

The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers 

The  Light  of  Stars  ..... 

Footsteps  of  Angels  . . . . . 

Flowers  ....... 

The  Beleaguered  City  . . . . . 

Midnight  Mass  for  the  Hying  Year  . 

EARLIER  POEMS. 

An  April  Hay 

Autumn  ........ 

Woods  in  Winter  ..... 

Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem  . 
Sunrise  on  the  Hills  ..... 

The  Spirit  of  Poetry  . . . . . 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink  .... 

TRANSLATIONS. 

Coplas  de  Manrique  ..... 

The  Good  Shepherd  ..... 

To-morrow  ....... 

The  Native  Land  ..... 

The  Image  of  God  . . . . . 

The  Brook  ...... 

The  Celestial  Pilot 

The  Terrestrial  Paradise  .... 

Beatrice 

Spring  ....... 

The  Child  Asleep  ...... 

The  Grave  ...... 

King  Christian  ...... 

The  Happiest  Land  ..... 

The  Wave  ....... 

The  Dead  ....... 

The  Bird  and  the  Ship  . . . . . 

Whither? 

Beware  ! . ...... 

Song  of  the  Bell  ..... 

The  Castle  by  the  Sea  . . . . . 

The  Black  Knight  ..... 

Song  of  the  Silent  Land  . . . . 

L’ Envoi  ....... 


PAGE 


3 

5 

6 
6 

7 

8 
8 
9 

10 


12 

13 

13 

14 

15 
15 
17 


18 

25 

26 
26 
26 
27 

27 

28 

29 

30 
30 

30 

31 

32 

33 

33 

34 

34 

35 

36 

36 

37 

38 
38 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor  ..... 
The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus  . . . . 

The  Luck  of  Edenhall  ..... 
The  Elected  Knight  ...... 

The  Children  of  the  Lord’s  Supper  . 

Miscellaneous. 

The  Village  Blacksmith 

Endymion  ....... 

The  Two  Locks  of  Hair  . . . . . 

It  is  not  always  May  ..... 

The  Rainy  Day  ...... 

God's-Acre  ....... 

To  the  River  Charles  . 

Blind  Bartimeus  ...... 

The  Goblet  of  Life  ...... 

Maidenhood  ....... 

Excelsior  ........ 

POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 

To  William  E.  Channing  .... 

The  Slave’s  Dream  ...... 

The  Good  Part,  that  shall  not  be  taken  away 

The  Slave  in  the  Dismal  Swamp 

The  Slave  singing  at  Midnight 

The  Witnesses  ....... 

The  Quadroon  Girl 

The  Warning  ....... 

THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  .... 

THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  AND  OTHER 
POEMS. 

Carillon  ........ 

The  Belfry  of  Bruges  ..... 

A Gleam  of  Sunshine  . . . . . 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield  .... 

Nuremberg  ....... 

The  Norman  Baron  ..... 

Rain  in  Summer  ...... 

To  a Child 

The  Occultation  of  Orion  . . . . 

The  Bridge  ....... 

To  the  Driving  Cloud  . 


PAGE 

41 

44 

46 

46 

48 


58 

59 

60 
61 
61 
62 
62 

63 

64 
64 
66 

69 

69 

70 

71 

72 

72 

73 

74 


119 

120 
121 
122 
123 

125 

126 
127 

131 

132 

133 


803019 


IV 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  I. 


Songs. 

The  Day  is  done  . . . . .134 

Afternoon  in  February  . . . . .134 

To  an  Old  Danish  Song-Book  . . . .135 

Walter  von  der  Vogel weid  . . . .136 

Drinking  Song 137 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs  . . . .138 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song  . . . . .139 

Sonnets. 

The  Evening  Star  . . . . . .140 

Autumn  . . . . . . . .140 

Dante  ........  140 

Translations. 

The  Hemlock  Tree  . . . .141 

Annie  of  Tharaw  . . . . . .141 

The  Statue  over  the  Cathedral  Door  . . 142 

The  Legend  of  the  Crossbill  . . . .142 

The  Sea  hath  its  Pearls  .....  143 

Poetic  Aphorisms  ......  143 

Curfew 144 

EVANGELINE.  A TALE  OF  ACADIE  . . 145 

THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 

Dedication  . . . . . . .189 

By  the  Seaside. 

The  Building  of  the  Ship  . . . . .190 

Seaweed  . . . . . . .196 

Chrysaor  . . . . . . . .197 

The  Secret  of  the  Sea  . . . . .197 

Twilight 197 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert 198 

The  Lighthouse  . . . . . .198 

The  Fire  of  Drift-Wood.  . . . .199 

By  the  Fireside. 

Resignation  .......  201 

The  Builders  .......  202 

Sand  of  the  Desert  in  an  Hour-Glass  . . 202 

The  Open  Window 203 

King  Witlaf’s  Drinking-Horn  ....  204 

Gaspar  Becerra  ......  204 

Pegasus  in  Pound  ......  205 

Tegner’s  Drapa  ......  206 

Sonnet  ........  207 

The  Singers  . . . . . . .207 

Suspiria  ........  208 

Hymn 208 

THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL  CUILLE  . 209 

A CHRISTMAS  CAROL  ....  218 

THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 

Introduction  . . . . • • .221 

1.  The  Peace-Pipe  .....  222 

11.  The  Four  Winds  .....  225 
in.  Hiawatha’s  Childhood  ....  229 


iv.  Hiawatha  and  Mudjekeewis  . . . 232 

v.  Hiawatha’s  Fasting  . . . .236 

vi.  Hiawatha’s  Friends  .....  240 

vii.  Hiawatha’s  Sailing  ....  242 

viii.  Hiawatha’s  Fishing  .....  244 

ix.  Hiawatha  and  the  Pearl-Feather  . . 248 

x.  Hiawatha’s  Wooing  .....  252 

xi.  Hiawatha’s  Wedding-Feast  . . . 256 

xii.  The  Son  of  the  Evening-Star  . . . 259 

xiii.  Blessing  the  Cornfields  ....  264 

xiv.  Picture-Writing 267 

xv.  Hiawatha’s  Lamentation  . . . 269 

xvi.  Pau-Puk-Keewis 272 

xvii.  The  Hunting  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis  . . 276 

xviii.  The  Death  of  Kwasind  ....  281 

xix.  The  Ghosts  ......  283 

xx.  The  Famine  ......  285 

xxi.  The  White  Man’s  Foot  ....  288 

xxii.  Hiawatha’s  Departure  . . . .291 

THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISIi. 

1.  Miles  Standish  . . . . . .297 

11.  Love  and  Friendship  ....  300 

hi.  The  Lover’s  Errand  .....  303 

IV.  John  Alden  ......  308 

v.  The  Sailing  of  the  Mayflower  . . .313 

Vi.  Priscilla  . . . . . . .317 

vii.  The  March  of  Miles  Standish  . . . 319 

viii.  The  Spinning-Wheel  ....  322 

ix.  The  Wedding-Day  .....  325 

BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

Flight  the  First. 

Prometheus,  or  the  Poet's  Forethought  . . 331 

Birds  of  Passage  . . . . . .332 

The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine  . . . 333 

The  Phantom  Ship  ......  334 

The  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports  . . . 334 

Haunted  Houses  ......  336 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Cambridge  . . .337 

The  Emperor’s  Bird’s-Nest  ....  337 

The  Two  Angels  ......  338 

Daylight  and  Moonlight  .....  339 

The  Jewish  Cemetery  at  Newport  . . . 339 

Oliver  Basselin  .......  341 

Victor  Galbraith  ......  342 

My  Lost  Youth  . . . . . . .342 

The  Rope  walk  ......  344 

The  Golden  Mile-Stone 345 

Catawba  Wine  ......  346 

Santa  Filomena 347 

Tbe  Discoverer  of  the  North  Cape  . . 348 

Daybreak  ........  350 

The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz  . . .351 

Children  . . . . • • • .351 

Sandalphon  .......  352 

Flight  the  Second. 

The  Children’s  Hour 353 

Enceladus  ........  354 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  I. 


v 


The  Cumberland  ......  355 

Snow-Flakes  .......  35G 

A Day  of  Sunshine  . . . . .357 

Something  left  Undone  .....  358 

Weariness  .......  358 

Flight  the  Third. 

Fata  Morgana  .......  359 

The  Haunted  Chamber  .....  359 

The  Meeting 360 

Vox  Populi  .......  360 

The  Castle-Builder  *.  . . . . . 360 

Changed  . . . . . . .361 

The  Challenge 361 

The  Brook  and  the  Wave  . . . . 362 

From  the  Spanish  Cancioneros  . . . 362 

Aftermath  . • . . . . . 363 

Epimetheus,  or  the  Poet’s  Afterthought  . . 364 

Flight  the  Fourth. 

Charles  Sumner  ......  365 

Travels  by  the  Fireside  . . . . .365 

Cadenabbia  .......  366 

Monte  Cassino  . . . . . . .367 

Amalfi 368 

The  Sermon  of  St.  Francis  . . . .370 

Belisarius  . . . . . . .371 

Songo  River  . . . . . . .372 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 

Part  First. 

Prelude. 


The  Wayside  Inn  . . . . .375 

The  Landlord’s  Tale. 

Paul  Revere’s  Ride  .....  379 
Interlude  . . . . . . .381 

The  Student’s  Tale. 

The  Falcon  of  Ser  Federigo  ....  382 

Interlude 386 

The  Spanish  Jew’s  Tale. 

The  Legend  of  Rabbi  Ben  Levi  . . .387 

Interlude  .......  388 

The  Sicilian’s  Tale. 

King  Robert  of  Sicily  .....  389 

Interlude  .......  393 

The  Musician’s  Tale. 

The  Saga  of  King  Olaf  ....  393 
1.  The  Challenge  of  Thor  . . . 393 

11.  King  Olaf’s  Return  ....  394 
in.  Thora  of  Rimol  ....  396 

iv.  Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty  . . .397 

v.  The  Skerry  of  Shrieks  . . . 398 

vi.  The  Wraith  of  Odin  ....  400 

vii.  Iron-Beard 401 

viii.  Gudrun 402 

ix.  Thangbrand  the  Priest  . . . 404 

x.  Raud  the  Strong  .....  405 

xi.  Bishop  Sigurd  at  Salten  Fiord  . . 406 

xii.  King  Olaf’s  Christmas  . . .407 

xiii.  The  Building  of  the  Long  Serpent  . 408 


xiv.  The  Crew  of  the  Long  Serpent  . .410 

xv.  A Little  Bird  in  the  Air  . . . 410 

xvi.  Queen  Thyri  and  the  Angelica  Stalks  412 

xvii.  King  Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard  . 413 

xviii.  King  Olaf  and  Earl  Sigvald  . . 414 

xix.  King  Olaf’s  War-Horns  . . . 415 

xx.  Einar  Tamberskelver  ....  416 

xxi.  King  Olaf’s  Death-Drink  . . 417 

xxii.  The  Nun  of  Nidaros  ....  418 
Interlude  . . . . . . .419 

The  Theologian’s  Tale. 

Torquemada 420 

Interlude  .......  425 

The  Poet’s  Tale. 

The  Birds  of  Killingworth  ....  425 
Finale 430 

Part  Second. 

Prelude 431 

The  Sicilian’s  Tale. 

The  Bell  of  Atri  .....  433 

Interlude  . . . . . . . .436 

The  Spanish  Jew’s  Tale. 

Kambalu  ......  436 

Interlude  . . . . . . . .438 

The  Student’s  Tale. 

The  Cobbler  of  Hagenau  ....  439 

Interlude 442 

The  Musician’s  Tale. 

The ’Ballad  of  Carmilhan  ....  443 

Interlude  ........  448 

The  Poet’s  Tale. 

Lady  W entworth  .....  448 

Interlude  ........  452 

The  Theologian’s  Tale. 

The  Legend  Beautiful  ....  452 

Interlude 454 

The  Student’s  Second  Tale. 

The  Baron  of  St.  Castine  . 455 

Finale  ........  460 

Part  Third. 

Prelude  . . . . . . . .461 

The  Spanish  Jew’s  Tale. 

Azrael  ........  462 

Interlude  .......  463 

The  Poet’s  Tale. 

Charlemagne  . . . . . . .464 

Interlude  .......  465 

The  Student’s  Tale. 

Emma  and  Eginhard  .....  466 
Interlude  . . . . . • . .470 

The  Theologian’s  Tale. 

Elizabeth  . . . . . . .471 

Interlude  . . . . . . .478 

The  Sicilian’s  Tale. 

The  Monk  of  Casal-Maggiore  . . .479 

Interlude  .......  485 

The  Spanish  Jew’s  Second  Tale. 

Scanderbeg  .......  486 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PORTRAIT  OF  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW Frontispiece. 

From  a photograph.  Engraved  by  W.  E.  Marshall. 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

A rtist. 

Engraver. 

Page. 

Half  Title 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

1 

Prelude. 

“ But  the  dark  foliage  interweaves 

In  one  unbroken  roof  of  leaves.”  . 

. J.  D.  Smillif.  . . . 

. W.  J.  Linton 

1 

Illustrated  Heading  .... 

. L.  S.  Ipsen  .... 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

3 

“ Avenue  of  pines  ” 

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

4 

Hymn  to  the  Night. 

Landscape  

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

5 

The  Light  of  Stars. 

“ The  cold  light  of  stars  ”... 

. T.  Moran 

. John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

7 

Flowers. 

“ The  castled  Rhine.”  .... 

. F.  B.  Schell  .... 

. J.  T.  Speer  ...  . . 

9 

The  Beleaguered  City. 

Prague F.  B.  Schell  . . . 

Midnight  Mass  to  the  Dying  Year. 

10 

The  Dead  Year 

EARLIER  POEMS. 

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

11 

Illustrated  Heading  .... 

. L.  S.  Ipsen  .... 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

12 

An  April  Day. 

Arbutus 

. John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

12 

Autumn. 

“ The  silver  habit  of  the  clouds  ” . 
Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of 

. J.  Appleton  Brown  . 
Bethlehem. 

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

13 

The  Nunnery  ..... 

. A.  R.  Waud  .... 

. John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

14 

The  Spirit  of  Poetry. 

“ The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods  ” 

. R.  Swain  Gifford 

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

16 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink. 


“ Behind , the  long  procession  came  ” . 


F.  O.  C.  Darley 


Smithwick  and  French  . 17 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS.  vii 

TRANSLATIONS.  Artist.  Engraver.  Page. 

Illustrated  Heading L.  S.  Ipsen Russell  and  Richardson  18 

Coi’LAS  DE  MaNRIQUE. 

“ Faith  wings  the  soul  ” C.  S.  Reinhart  . . . . J.  P.  Davis 1 !) 

“ High-born  dames  ” C.  S.  Reinhart J.  Tinkey 21 

“ Prowess  high  ” C.  S.  Reinhart  . . . . J.  P.  Davis 23 

The  Image  of  God. 

Cross F.  T.  Merrill  ....  John  Andrew  and  Son  . 26 

The  Brook. 

“ Pomp  of  the  meadow ! ” . . . . W.  H.  Gibson  J.  S.  Harley 27 

The  Terrestial  Paradise. 

“ Into  the  ancient  ivood  ” ...  . T.  Moran J.  A.  Bogert 28 

King  Christian. 

Portrait  of  King  Christian  . . . W.  L.  Sheppard  . . . Smithwick  and  French  . 31 

"And  smote  upon  the  foe  full  sore”  , W.  L.  Sheppard  . . . Smithwick  and  French  . 32 

The  Wave A.  R.  Waud John  Andrew  and  Son  . 33 

Beware A.  Hoppin T.  H.  Heard 35 

The  Castle  by  the  Sea  . . . . G.  F.  Barnes Russell  and  Richardson  36 

The  Black  Knight. 

“ Danced  in  sable  iron  sark  ” . . . A.  Fredericks  . . . . .T.  P.  Davis 37 

BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Half  Title L.  S.  Ipsen Russell  and  Richardson  39 

Illustrated  Heading L.  S.  Ipsen Russell  and  Richardson  41 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor. 

“ I wooed  the  blue  eyed  maid  ” . . E.  A.  Abbey J.  P.  Davis 39 

The  Round  Tower  at  Newport  . . F.  B.  Schell  . . . . A.  V.  S.  Anthony  ...  41 

“ O'er  the  dark  sea  I flew  ” . . . T.  Moran W.  J.  Linton 42 

The  Drinking  Horn L.  S.  Ipsen Russell  and  Richardson  44 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus. 

“ Norman’s  Woe  ” John  R.  Key  . . . . A.  V.  S.  Anthony  ...  45 

“ Lashed  close  to  a drifting  mast.”  . W.  L.  Sheppard  . . . Russell  and  Richardson  45 

The  Elected  Knight I.  W.  Ehninger  . . . Meeder  and  Chubb  . . 47 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD’S  SUPPER. 

Illustrated  Heading L.  S.  Ipsen Russell  and  Richardson  48 

“ Day  of  rejoicing” E.  A.  Abbey J.  P.  Davis 48 

“ The  affectionate  Teacher  ” . . . E.  A.  Abbey J.  P.  Davis' 50 

“ The  lost  lamb” E.  A.  Abbey T.  Tinkey 53 

“ There  enraptured  she  wanders  ” . E.  A.  Abbey J.  P.  Davis 54 

“ Knee  against  knee  they  knitted  a 

wreath  round  the  altar's  enclosure  ” E.  A.  Abbey A.  Bobbett 56 

Tail-piece.  Lilies 57 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Illustrated  Heading L.  S.  Ipsen Russell  and  Richardson  58 

The  Village  Blacksmith. 

“ The  village  smithy  ” J.  Appleton  Brown  . . A.  V.  S.  Anthony  ...  58 

(After  a painting  in  Mr.  Longfellow’s  possession). 


Vlll 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Endymion. 

Artist. 

Engraver. 

Page. 

“ The  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars  ” 

A.  R.  Waud  .... 

. J.  A.  Bogert 

59 

The  Two  Locks  of  Hair. 

“ Then  dropt  the  child  asleep  ” 

E.  A.  Abbey  .... 

60 

It  is  not  always  May  i 
The  Rainy  Day  i 

To  the  River  Charles. 

F.  B.  Schell  .... 

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

61 

“ Through  the  meadows , bright  and 

free  ” . . . . \ 

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

62 

Blind  Bartimeus. 

“ The  gates  of  Jericho  ” 

E.  H.  Garratt  . . . 

. John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

63 

Maidenhood. 

“ Seest  thou  shadoivs  sailing  by  7"  . 

Mary  Hali.ock  Foote 

W.  J.  Linton 

65 

Excelsior. 

St.  Bernard 

John  R.  Key  . . . 

. W.  IJ.  Morse  . . . . . 

66 

POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 

. 

Half  Title 

L.  S.  Ipsen  .... 

Russell  and  Richardson 

67 

Illustrated  Heading 

L.  S.  Ipsen  .... 

Russell  and  Richardson 

69 

The  Good  Part. 

“ Great  Kenhawa' s side  ” ...  . 

W.  L.  Sheppard  . . 

. John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

70 

The  Slave  in  the  Dismal  Swamp. 

“ Where  waving  mosses  shroud,  the 

pine  ” 

71 

The  Quadroon  Girl. 

“ Lay  moored  with  idle  sail  ”... 

Granville  Perkins  . 

. .John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

73 

The  Warning. 

Tail-piece  

Russell  and  Richardson 

74 

THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 

Street  in  Madrid 

Samuel  Colman  . . 

. W.  II.  Morse 

75 

Half  Title 

Russell  and  Richardson 

75 

Illustrated  Heading 

L.  S.  Ipsen  .... 

Russell  and  Richardson 

77 

The  Count  of  Lara  and  Don  Carlos 

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

A.  Bobbett  

78 

Street  in  Madrid.  The  Musicians. 

Samuel  Colman  . . 

. W.  J.  Linton 

80 

Victorian  and  Preciosa  on  balcony  . 

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

. A.  Bobbett 

82 

Chispa  and  Baltasar 

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

84 

Victorian  Reading 

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

87 

Preciosa  and  Angelica  .... 

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

88 

Preciosa  before  the  Cardinal 

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

. D.  C.  Hitchcock  . . . 

91 

The  Prado 

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

93 

Begone  ! begone  ! ” 

A.  Fredericks  . . 

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

95 

“ I gave  up  all  for  thee  ” 

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

. John  Andreav  and  Son  . 

97 

The  Duel 

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

98 

“ She  sleeps  at  last  ” 

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

. R.  H.  Stewart  . . . . 

101 

Cross  Road  in  the  Wood  . . . 

R.  Swain  Gifford 

. A.  V:  S.  Anthony  . . . 

102 

Square  in  Guadarrama  .... 

Samuel  Colman  . . 

. W.  J.  Linton 

104 

Victorian,  Hypolito,  and  the  Padre 

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

Russell  and  Richardson 

105 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


IX 


Artist. 

Engraver. 

Page. 

Martina  and  Ilypolito  .... 

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

Russell  and  Richardson 

107 

A Post-liou.se 

. A.  Y.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

108 

Gypsies’  Camp  in  the  Forest 

C.  S.  Reinhart  . . . 

. F.  Juengling  . . •.  . . 

109 

“ Be  still,  my  swelling  heart ! ” . . 

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony  ... 

112 

A Pass  in  the  Mountains  . . . 

T.  Moran  .... 

114 

A Mounted  Contrabandists  . . . 

R.  Swain  Gifford  . . 

. A.  Y.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

115 

Death  of  Bartolome 

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

116 

THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Half  Title L.  S.  Ipsen  .... 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

117 

Illustrated  Heading 

L.  S.  Ipsen  .... 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

119 

The  Belfry  of  Bruges 

W.  H.  Gibson  . . . 

120 

A Gleam  of  Sunshine. 

A Lane  in  Brookline 

John  R.  Key  . . . 

. W.  H.  Richardson  . . . 

121 

Nuremberg 

The  Heathen  Tower 

F.  B.  Schell  . . . 

. J.  S.  Harley 

123 

Interior,  St.  Lawrence  Church  . . 

F.  B.  Schell  . . . 

. J.  S.  Harley 

124 

Albrecht  Durer’s  House  .... 

F.  B.  Schell  . . . 

. John  Andrew  and  ^on  . 

125 

Rain  in  Summer 

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

126 

To  a Child. 

Staircase  and  Nursery  in  Mr.  Long- 

fellow’s  House 

. W.  H.  Morse 

128 

A path  in  Mr.  Longfellow’s  Garden 

G.  F.  Barnes  . . . 

. J.  T.  Speer 

129 

Tail-piece  

. T.  Robinson  ..... 

130 

The  Occultation  of  Orion. 

“ And  beautiful  as  some  fair  saint  ” . 

C.  S.  Reinhart  . . . 

. J.  P.  Davis 

131 

The  Bridge. 

“ And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 

Behind  the  dark  church-tower  ” . 

F.  B.  Schell  . . . 

. W.  H.  Morse 

132 

To  the  Driving  Cloud. 

Tail-piece 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

133 

SONGS. 

Illustrated  Heading  j 

L.  S.  Ipsen  .... 

Russell  and  Richardson 

134 

To  an  Old  Danish  Song  Book. 
The  Song  Book  ....... 

L.  S. Ipsen  .... 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

135 

Walter  von  der  Vogelweid. 

“ From  the  walls  and  woodland  nests  ” 

F.  T.  Merrill  . . . 

. W.  J.  Dana 

136 

Drinking  Song. 

Pitcher  in  Mr.  Longfellow’s  Pos- 

session  ......... 

G.  F.  Barnes  . . . 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

137 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs. 

The  “ Gold  House  ” in  Pittsfield  . 

D.  C.  Hitchcock  . . 

. John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

138 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song. 

Tail-piece  

L.  S.  Ipsen  .... 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

139 

SONNETS. 

Illustrated  Heading 

b 

L.  S.  Ipsen  .... 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

140 

X 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


TRANSLATIONS. 

Artist. 

Engraver. 

Page. 

Illustrated  Heading  . . . . 

L.  S.  IrsEN 

Russell  and  Richardson 

141 

Curfew. 

“ The  Curfew  Bell  ” 

G.  Gibson  

144 

EVANGELINE. 

Evangeline 

E.  A.  Abbey 

W.  J.  Linton 

145 

Half  Title 

Russell  and  Richardson 

145 

Illustrated  Heading 

L.  S.  Ipsen 

Russell  and  Richardson 

147 

“ Stand  like  harpers  hoar  ” ... 

W.  II.  Gibson  .... 

J.  S.  Harley 

147 

Grand  Pre 

John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

148 

“ Down  the  long  street  she  passed  ” . 

E.  A.  Abbey 

J.  P.  Davis 

150 

“ With  her  hand  in  her  lover's  ” . 

E.  A.  Abbey 

R.  H.  Steavart  .... 

154 

The  Betrothal 

R.  II.  Steavart  .... 

156 

The  Gathering 

E.  A.  Abbey 

Russell  and  Richardson 

158 

In  the  Churchyard 

E.  A.  Abbey 

John  Andreav  and  Son  . 

159 

“ Long  at  her  father's  door  Evange- 

line  stood  ” 

E.  A.  Abbey 

Smithavick  and  French  . 

161 

“ Clasped  she  his  hands,  and  laid  her 

head  on  his  shoulder  ” . 

E.  A.  Abbey 

Smithavick  and  French  . 

163 

“ Slowlg  the  priest  uplifted  the  lifeless 

head  ” 

J.  P.  Davis 

166 

Evangeline 

Mary  IIallock  Foote  . 

Smithavick  and  French  . 

167 

“ Far  down  the  Beautiful  River  ” 

Granville  Perkins  . . 

A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

168 

“ Safely  their  boat  was  moored  ” . 

Granville  Perkins  . . 

John  Andreav  and  Son  . 

170 

Evangeline  and  Basil 

C.  S.  Reinhart  .... 

J.  P.  Davis 

173 

“ While  Evangeline  stood  like  one  en- 

tranced " 

Smithavick  and  French  . 

175 

“ Among  the  Wind-river  Mountains  ” 

T.  Moran 

John  Andreav  and  Son  . 

177 

“ Mute  with  wonder  the  Shawnee  sat  ” 

C.  S.  Reinhart  .... 

A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

179 

“ The  hunter's  lodge  ” 

Granville  Perkins  . . 

John  Andreav  and  Son  . 

181 

“ The  Delaware's  waters  ” ...  . 

Granville  Perkins  . . 

R.  H.  Steavart  .... 

182 

“ Darkness  of  slumber  and  death  " 

C.  S.  Reinhart  .... 

Smithavick  and  French  . 

185 

The  Graves 

Granville  Perkins  . . 

John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

186 

THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 

Half  Title L.  S.  Ipsen 

Russell  and  Richardson 

187 

Illustrated  Heading 

L.  S.  Ipsen 

Russell  and  Richardson 

189 

By  the  Seaside. 

Illustrated  Heading 

L.  S.  Ipsen 

Russell  and  Richardson 

190 

The  Building  of  the  Ship. 
The  Master  and  the  Youth  . 

G.  F.  Barnes  .... 

W.  H.  Morse 

191 

“ Standing  before 

Her  father’s  door  ” 

Eastman  Johnson  . . 

J.  P.  Davis 

192 

“ In  the  deer-haunted  forests  of 

Maine " 

C.  E.  H.  Bonavill  . . . 

W.  II.  Morse 

193 

“ On  the  deck  another  bride  ”... 

G.  F.  Barnes  .... 

Russell  and  Richardson 

194 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


xi 


Seaweed. 

Artist. 

Engraver. 

Page. 

“ And  from  wrecks  of  ships  ”... 

J.  Davidson  . . 

. J.  Filmer 

196 

The  Fibe  op  Drift-wood. 

Devereux  Farm.  Exterior  and  Sit- 

ting-room 

. W.  II.  Morse 

200 

By  the  Fireside. 

Illustrated  Heading L.  S.  Ipsen 

Sand  of  the  Desert  in  an  IIour-glass. 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

201 

“ With  weshoard  steps  depart  ” 

A.  Fredericks  . 

. John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

203 

Pegasus  in  Pound. 

“ And  the  curious  country  people  ” 

F.  S.  Church 

205 

“ Pure  and  bright,  a fountain  flowing  ” 

C.  Graham  . . 

. J.  Hellawell 

206 

Hymn. 

Tail-piece L.  S.  Ipsen  . . 

THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL  CUILLE. 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

208 

Half  Title 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

209 

Illustrated  Heading 

L.  S.  Ipsen  . . 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

211 

“ When  lo  ! a merry  company  ” 

W.  L.  Sheppard 

. W.  II.  Morse 

211 

“ The  village  seer  ” 

W.  L.  Sheppard 

. W.  J.  Dana 

213 

“ Who  knows  ? perhaps  I am  for- 

saken  ! ” 

. W.  J.  Dana 

214 

“ Why  dost  thou  clasp  me  so,  dear 

Margaret  ?” 

W.  L.  Sheppard 

. John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

216 

“ Lifeless  she  fell ! ” 

R.  II.  Stewart  .... 

217 

A CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

Decoration 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

218 

THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 

“ And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him 

F.  0.  C.  Darley 

J.  A.  Bogert 

219 

Half  Title 

Russell  and  Richardson 

219 

Illustrated  Heading 

L.  S.  Ipsen  . . 

Russell  and  Richardson 

221 

“ Gitclie  Manito,  the  mighty  ”... 

T.  Moran  . . . 

J.  A.  Bogert 

223 

Tail-piece.  Peace  Pipe  .... 

G.  F.  Barnes  . 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

224 

“ Hark  you,  Bear  ! ” 

Russell  and  Richardson 

225 

“ To  the  lodge  came  wild  and  ivailing  ” 

W.  II.  Gibson  . 

G.  H.  Smith 

227 

Hiawatha’s  childhood 

E.  ScHOONMAKER  .... 

230 

The  Kingdom  of  the  West  Wind  . 

Worthington  Wiiittredge  W.  J.  Linton 

232 

“ Came  unto  the  Rocky  Mountains  ” 

W.  IL  Gibson 

W.  II.  Morse 

233 

“ Hurled  them  madly  at  his  father  ” . 

F.  0.  C.  Darley 

Russell  and  Richardson 

234 

“ Paused  to  purchase  heads  of  ar- 

rows  ” 

John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

235 

Mondamin  at  Hiawatha’s  Tent  . 

F.  B.  Schell 

W.  J.  Dana 

237 

The  Wrestling 

J.  A.  Bogert 

238 

Kwasind  clearing  the  Path  . 

F.  0.  C.  Darley 

John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

241 

Hiawatha  building  the  Canoe  . . 

F.  B.  Schell  . 

John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

243 

Hiawatha  fishing 

J.  A.  Bogert 

245 

Death  of  Nahma 

Granville  Perkins  . . 

J.  Hellawell 

247 

“ Shot  them  fast  among  the  serpents  ” 

F.  0.  C.  Darley 

• . 

John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

249 

Xll 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


“ The  herd’s  coming  "’ 

“ Wed  a maiden  of  your  people  ” . . 

Falls  of  Minnehaha 

“ From  the  shy  the  moon  looked  at  them  ” 
“ Danced  his  Beggar’s  Dance  ” 

Chibiabos  Singing 

“ Can  it  he  the  sun  descending  ? ” 

“ Took  her  hand , as  brown  and  withered 
As  an  oak-leaf  is  in  Winter  ” 

“ Soon  they  came  with  caw  and 

clamor  ” 

“ The  harvest  of  the  cornfields  ” 
Painting  the  Birch  Tree  .... 

“ Danced  their  medicine-dance  ” . 

“ Then  the  smiling  Pau-Puk-Keewis , 
Shook  the  howl  and  threw  the  pieces  ” 
Pau-Puk-Keewis  and  the  Birds 

The  Beaver  Dam 

“ With  their  clubs  they  heat  and 

bruised  him  ” 

“ The  distant  Thunder  Mountains  ” . 

“ Headlong , as  an  otter  plunges  ” . 

“ The  wintry  tempest  ” 

Hiawatha  and  the  Ghosts  . . . 

Death  of  Minnehaha 

“ I have  seen  it  in  a vision  ”... 

“ Toward  the  sun  his  hands  were 

lifted  ” 

Hiawatha’s  Departure  .... 

“ Westward,  westward , Hiawatha 
Sailed  into  the  fiery  sunset  ” . . . 


Artist. 

Engraver. 

Page. 

Granville  Perkins 

. 

John  Andrew  and 

Son  . 

251 

F.  O.  C.  Darley  . 

J.  T.  Speer  . . . 

252 

W.  II.  Gibson  . . 

W.  II.  Morse  . . 

253 

Granville  Perkins 

R.  H.  Stewart  . 

255 

F.  O.  C.  Darley 

J.  P.  Davis  ..  . . 

257 

F.  0.  C.  Darley 

John  Andrew  and 

Son  . 

258 

T.  Moran 

John  Andrew  and 

Son  . 

259 

F.  0.  C.  Darley 

John  Andrew  and 

Son  . 

261 

F.  0.  C.  Darley 

J.  T.  Speer  . . . 

265 

F.  0.  C.  Darley 

John  Andrew  and 

Son  . 

266 

F.  0.  C.  Darley 

John  Andrew  and 

Son  . 

268 

F.  0.  C.  Darley 

J.  A.  Bogert  . . 

. . . 

271 

F.  0.  C.  Darley  . 

John  Andrew  and 

Son  . 

274 

J.  E.  Baker  . . . 

A.  V.  S.  Anthony 

275 

W.  II.  Gibson  . . 

John  Filmer  . . 

. . . 

277 

F.  0.  C.  Darley  . 

Russell  and  Richardson 

278 

J.  E.  Baker  . . . 

W.  J.  Dana  . . . 

280 

F.  0.  C.  Darley 



. 

282 

. 

282 

F.  0.  C.  Darley  . 

J.  A.  Bogert  . . 

285 

F.  0.  C.  Darley 

J.  A.  Bogert  . . 

287 

F.  0.  C.  Darley 

John  Andrew  and 

Son  . 

290 

John  Andrew  and 

Son  . 

291 

F.  0.  C.  Darley 

John  Andrew  and 

Son  . 

293 

T.  Moran F.  S.  King 294 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


“ Why  does  he  not  come  himself  and 

take  the  trouble  to  woo  me  ? ” . . Geo.  II.  Boughton 

Half  Title L.  S.  Ipsen  . . . 

Illustrated  Heading L.  S.  Ipsen  . . . 

Plymouth  F.  B.  Schell  . . 

Miles  Standish  at  the  Grave  . . Geo.  II.  Boughton 

Priscilla Geo.  H.  Boughton 

“ John  Alden  went  on  his  errand  ” . Geo.  H.  Boughton 

“ Reeling  and  plunging  along  through 

the  drifts  ’’ D.  C.  Hitchcock  . 

Standish  Hall.  Duxbury,  England  . W.  H.  Gibson  . . 

“ And  wandered  alone  by  the  seaside  ” F.  II.  Shapleigh  . 

“ Dimly  the  shadowy  form  of  the  May- 
flower riding  at  anchor  ”...  Granville  Perkins  . 


Russell  and  Richardson  295 
Russell  and  Richardson  295 
Russell  and  Richardson  297 
John  Andrew  and  Son  . 297 

,J.  S.  Harley 299 

Russell  and  Richardson  301 
J.  S.  Harley 304 

J.  T.  Speer 305 

W.  J.  Dana 307 

A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 308 


E.  Kingsley  . . . 


. . 309 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


XIII 


A rtist. 

Engraver. 

Page. 

The  Council 

C.  S.  Reinhart  ... 

. J.  P.  Davis 

“ Depths  of  the  forest  ” 

G.  F.  Barnes  . . . 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

312 

The  Mayflower 

“ Nearer  the  boat  stood  Alden,  with 

Granville  Perkins  . . 

E.  Kingsley 

313 

one  foot  placed  on  the  gunwale  ” 
“ Frankly  I speak  to  you,  asking  for 

C.  S.  Reinhart  ... 

. John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

315 

sympathy  only  and  kindness  ” 

C.  S.  Reinhart  . . . 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

318 

Standish  and  Wattawamat  . . . 

Geo.  II.  Bougiiton 

. J.  S.  Harley 

321 

“ The  pathway  that  ran  through  the 

323 

The  Rivulets 

J.  E.  Baker  .... 

325 

“ A form  appeared  on  the  threshold  ” . 

Geo.  II.  Bougiiton 

. J.  S.  Harley 

32  G 

“ The  barren  waste  of  the  sea-shore  ” . 

F.  II.  Siiapleigh  . . . 

W.  J.  Dana 

327 

The  Standish  Spring.  From  a 

sketch  by 

Justin  Winsor  . . . 

. John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

328 

BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

Half  Title 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

329 

Longfellow  House,  Portland  . . 

F.  B.  Schell  .... 

. J.  P.  Davis 

329 

Flight  the  First. 

Illustrated  Heading  ..... 

L.  S.  Ipsen  . . . . . 

, Russell  and  Richardson 

331 

Birds  of  Passage. 

“ Black  shadows  fall 

From  the  lindens  tall  ” .... 

J.  D.  Smillie  . . . . 

J.  A.  Bogert 

The  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports 

A.  R.  Waud 

C.  Cullen" 

335 

Haunted  Houses 

W.  II.  Gibson  . . . 

. G.  F.  Smith 

336 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Cambridge. 

The  Vassal  Tomb 

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

337 

The  Jewish  Cemetery  at  Newport. 

The  Gateway 

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

340 

My  Lost  Youth. 

“ The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods  ” 

W.  II.  Gibson  . . . 

. Smithwick  and  French  . 

343 

The  Ropewalk. 

“And  a woman  with  bare  arms, 

Drawing  water  from  a well ” 

Mary  Hallock  Foote 

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

344 

The  Golden  Mile-stone  .... 
Catawba  Wine. 

F.  S.  Church  . . . . 

. J.  P.  Davis 

345 

Vineyard  on  the  Ohio  .... 

A.  R.  Waud 

John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

347 

The  Discoverer  of  the  North  Cape. 

The  North  Cape 

John  Filmer 

349 

Daybreak. 

“ It  hailed  the  ships  ” 

“ It  touched  the  wood-bird' s folded 

Granville  Perkins  . 

E.  Kingsley 

350 

icing  ” 

Granville  Perkins  . . 

W.  J.  Dana 

351 

“ It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn  ” . 

Granville  Perkins  . . 

W.  J.  Dana 

351 

Flight  the  Second. 

Illustrated  Heading 

L.  S.  Ipsen 

Russell  and  Richardson 

353 

XIV 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


The  Children’s  Hour. 

A rtist. 

Engraver. 

Page. 

Mr.  Longfellow’s  Study  . . . 

E.  H.  Garrett  .... 

W.  II.  Morse  . . . . . 

353 

Enceladus. 

Mount  Etna 

W.  II.  Gibson  .... 

W.  J.  Linton 

354 

The  Cumberland  

J.  T.  Speer 

355 

Snow-flakes  

G.  F.  Smith 

356 

A Day  of  Sunshine 

W.  J.  Hennessy  . . . 

•I.  S.  Harley 

357 

Weariness 

C.  Cullen 

358 

Flight  the  Third. 

Illustrated  Heading 

© 

L.  S.  Ipsen  

Russell  and  Richardson 

359 

Changed. 

“ The  dark  and  haunted  wood.  ” 

F.  B.  Schell  .... 

A.  Y.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

361 

Aftermath  

J.  S.  Harley 

363 

Epimetheus. 

Hyacinths 

E.  Wilson 

364 

Flight  the  Fourth. 

Illustrated  Heading 

L.  S.  Ipsen  

Russell  and  Richardson 

365 

Cadenabbia. 

Bellaggio 

W.  J.  Dana 

366 

Amalfi. 

“ Leans  a monk  with  folded  hands  ” 

•T.  Appleton  Broavn  . . 

John  Andrew  and  Son  . 

369 

The  Sermon  of  St.  Francis. 

St.  F rancis  and  the  Birds  . . . . 

F.  S.  Church  .... 

E.  IIeinemann  . . . . 

370 

Belisarius 

T.  I).  Sugden 

371 

Songo  River  

J.  Tinkey 

372 

TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


The  Wayside  Inn 

Homer  D.  Martin 

. . W.  J.  Linton 

373 

Half  Title 

L.  S.  Ipsen  . . . 

. . Russell  and  Richardson 

373 

Part  First. 

Illustrated  Heading 

L.  S.  Ipsen  . . . 

. . Russell  and  Richardson 

375 

“ Around  the  fireside  at  their  ease  ” . 

C.  S.  Reinhart  . . 

. . E.  IIeinemann 

376 

Paul  Revere’s  Ride. 

Christ  Church,  Boston  .... 

D.  C.  Hitchcock  . 

. . R.  Varley 

379 

Paul  Revere’s  Ride 

. . J.  P.  Davis 

380 

The  Falcon  of  Ser  Federigo. 

“ And  often,  sitting  hg  the  sufferer’s 

side  ” 

. . G.  Kreull 

384 

The  Legend  of  Rabbi  Ben  Levi. 

The  Angel  of  Death 

A.  Fredericks  . . 

. . J.  S.  Harley 

387 

King  Robert  of  Sicily. 

Palermo 

. . A.  V.  S.  Anthony  . . . 

389 

“ I am,  lam  the  King  ! ” . . . . 

The  Challenge  of  Tiior. 

A.  Fredericks  . . 

. . Russell  and  Richardson 

391 

Thor 

. . S.  S.  Iyilburn 

393 

King  Olaf’s  Return. 

“ I accept  thy  challenge , Thor  / ” . 

F.  S.  Church  . . 

. . J.  P.  Davis  

395 

Thora  of  Rimol  

F.  0.  C.  Darley 

. . S.  S.  Kilburn 

396 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


XV 


The  Skerry  of  Shrieks. 

A rtist. 

Engraver. 

Page. 

“ It  was  Eyvind  Kallda’s  crew  ” . 

F.  S.  Church  . . . 

. ,J.  P.  Pa  vis  . • 

398 

The  Wraitii  of  Odin. 

The  Feast  

F.  Dielman  .... 

. W.  J.  Pana 

400 

Gudrun  

. J.  P.  Pa  vis 

403 

Tiiangbrand  the  Priest  .... 

A.  R.  Waud  .... 

. J.  Metcalfe  . 

404 

The  Building  of  the  Long  Serpent. 

The  Long  Serpent 

S.  G.  W.  Benjamin 

. .J.  T.  Speer  . , 

409 

A Little  Bird  in  the  Air. 

Queen  Thyri 

. Smithwick  and  French  . 

411 

Queen  Thyri  and  the  Angelica 

Stalks  

. Smithwick  and  French  . 

412 

King  Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard 

A.  Hoppin  .... 

. J.  P.  Pa  vis  . 

413 

King  Olaf’s  War-horns. 

“ Three  together  the  ships  were  lashed” 

T.  Moran 

. J.  T.  Speer  . . 

415 

The  Nun  of  Nidaros. 

“ Alone  in  her  chamber 

Knelt  Asirid  the  Abbess  ” . . . . 

J.  W.  Ehninger  . . 

. J.  P.  Davis  . . 

418 

Torquemada. 

“ Returning  from  their  convent  school  ” 
“ Then  to  the  Grand  Inquisitor  once 

C.  S.  Reinhart  . . . 

. W.  J.  Linton 

421 

more 

The  Hidalgo  went  ” 

“ Slowly  the  long  procession  crossed  the 

C.  S.  Reinhart  . . . 

. J.  S.  Harley 



423 

square  ” 

. S.  S.  Kilburn  . 

424 

The  Birds  of  Killingworth. 

Killingworth 

“ These  came  together  in  the  new  town- 

. R.  H.  Stewart 

426 

hall  ” 

F.  0.  C.  Parley  . . 

. ,J.  A.  Bogert  . 

428 

Finale. 

“ The  embers  of  the  fire  ” .... 

L.  B.  Humphrey  . . 

. John  Andrew 

and  Son  . 

430 

Part  Second. 

Illustrated  Heading 

L.  S. Ipsen  .... 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

431 

Prelude. 

“ A jaded  horse,  his  head  down  bent  ” 

F.  B.  Schell  . . . 

. H.  M.  Snyder  . 

432 

The  Bell  of  Atri. 

“ Who  loved  his  falcons  with  their 

crimson  hoods  ” 

. J.  W.  Lauderbach  . . . 

433 

“ A noisy  cro  wd  ” 

. Smithwick  anl 

i French  . 

435 

Kambalu. 

“ Still  clutching  his  treasure  ”... 

Walter  Shirlaw  . . 

. J.  P.  Davis  . . 

. 

436 

“ As  in  at  the  gate  we  rode  ”... 

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

. T.  D.  Sugden  . 

437 

The  Cobbler  of  Hagenau. 

“ Mending  the  Burgomaster’s  shoes  ” . 

F.  0.  C.  Parley  . . 

. John  Andrew 

and  Son  . 

439 

“ lie  came,  confiding  in  his  cause  ” . 
The  Ballad  of  Carmilhan. 

F.  0.  C.  Parley  . . 

. John  Andrew 

and  Son  . 

441 

“ At  Stralsund , by  the  Baltic  Sea  ” . 

A.  R.  Waud  .... 

. John  Andrew 

and  Son  . 

443 

XY1 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Artist.  Engraver.  Page. 


The  Spectre  Ship 

A.  R.  Waud 

J.  P.  Davis  . . . 

444 

“ Low  down  upon  the  sandy  coast  ” . 

A.  R.  Waud  .... 

John  Andrew  and 

Son  . 

445 

“ As  she  dashed  and  crashed , a hope- 
less wreck  ” 

A.  R.  Waud  .... 

447 

Lady  Wentworth. 

“A  pail  of  water , dripping  through  the 
street, 

And  bathing , as  she  went,  her  naked 
feet"  . 

G.  Kruell  . . . 

449 

The  Wentworth  House  .... 

F.  B.  Schell  . . . 

W.  J.  Dana  . . . 

. 

451 

The  Legend  Beautiful. 

“ To  the  convent  portals  came 
All  the  blind  and  halt  and  lame  ” . 

A.  B.  Frost  .... 

E.  Heinemann  . . 

453 

The  Baron  of  St.  Castine. 

“ His  father,  lonely,  old,  and  gray  ” . 

W.  L.  Sheppard  . . 

. John  Andrew  and 

Son  . 

455 

In  the  Valley  of  Lavedan  . 

F.  B.  Schell  . . . 

John  Andrew  and 

Son  . 

456 

“ Speeding  along  the  woodland  way  ” 

F.  B.  Schell  . . . 

. N.  Orr  .... 

458 

Finale. 

“ A shattered  rainbow  hung  ”... 

F.  B.  Schell  . . . 

460 

Part  Third. 

Illustrated  Heading 

L.  S.  Ipsen  .... 

. Russell  and  Richardson 

461 

Interlude. 

“ Pavia,  the  country's  pride  and  boast  ” 

A.  R.  Waud  .... 

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony 

463 

Charlemagne  

A.  Fredericks  . . . 

. W.  J.  Dana  . . . 

464 

Emma  and  Eginhard. 

Emma  and  Eginhard 

F.  Dielman  .... 

. W.  J.  Dana  . . 

467 

Eginhard  and  the  Emperor  . 

F.  Dielman  .... 

. W.  J.  Dana  . . . 

469 

Interlude. 

“ The  old  orchard  ” 

. R.  M.  Smart  . . 

471 

Elizabeth. 

Delaware  River  

. A.  V.  S.  Anthony 

472 

“ And  as  he  entered,  Elizabeth  rose  ” . 

T.  W.  Wood  .... 

. W.  J.  Linton  . . 

474 

“ When  the  supper  was  ended  they 
drew  their  chairs  to  the  f replace  ” 

T.  W.  Wood  .... 

. W.  J.  Dana  . . . 

475 

“ Thus  came  the  lovely  spring  ” . 

F.  B.  Schell  .... 

. R.  Varley  . . . 

476 

The  Monk  of  Casal  Maggiore. 

“ Wended  their  weary  way  with  foot- 
steps slo  w ” 

. II.  M.  Snyder  . . 

479 

“ All  ivelcomed  the  Franciscan  ” . 

W.  L.  Sheppard  . . 

. H.  M.  Snyder  . . 

. . . 

481 

“ And  as  he  entered  through  the  con- 
vent gate  ” 

W.  L.  Sheppard  . . 

J.  Foster  . . . 

483 

“ And  patted  him  upon  the  neck  and 
face  ” 

H.  M.  Snyder  . . 

484 

SCANDERBEG. 

“ The  trembling  scribe  obeyed  ” . . 

F.  0.  C.  Darley  . . 

John  Andrew  and 

Son  . 

487 

“ He  rode  in  regal  state  ” ...  . 

F.  0.  C.  Darley  . . 

L.  Da  MOREAU  . . 

. . . 

488 

wt  hbrary 

Of  rue 


artist:  j D.  SMIL  LIE. 


But  the  dark  foliage  interweaves 
In  one  unbroken  roof  of  leaves." 

Prelude. 


Ill  ii  ii  1 1x5 


n OTl'ta,  TTOTl’ia  vv£, 

inrvoSnT€Lpa  twv  tto\.vk6vu>v  fSpnTuyv, 

’Epe/366tv  16 l • pi'ike  po\e  KaTanrepos 

’ Ayapiep.voi'iov  sttI  Souov  • 

U7 ro  yap  aAycuu',  vtto  re  crvp.(f)(>pa<; 
Sioi^n/jLtO’,  ol^opeOa. 


Euripides. 


PRELUDE. 


Pleasant  it  was,  when  woods  were  green, 
And  winds  were  soft  and  low, 

To  lie  amid  some  sylvan  scene, 

Where,  the  long  drooping  boughs  between, 
Shadows  dark  and  sunlight  sheen 
Alternate  come  and  go ; 

Or  where  the  denser  grove  receives 
No  sunlight  from  above, 

But  the  dark  foliage  interweaves 
In  one  unbroken  roof  of  leaves, 

Underneath  whose  sloping  eaves 
The  shadows  hardly  move. 

Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree 
I lay  upon  the  ground ; 

His  hoary  arms  uplifted  he, 

And  all  the  broad  leaves  over  me 
Clapped  their  little  hands  in  glee. 

With  one  continuous  sound  ; — 

A slumberous  sound,  a sound  that  brings 
The  feelings  of  a dream,  *■ 

As  of  innumerable  wings, 

As,  when  a bell  no  longer  swings, 

Faint  the  hollow  murmur  rings 
O’er  meadow,  lake,  and  stream. 


And  dreams  of  that  which  cannot  die, 
Bright  visions,  came  to  me, 

As  lapped  in  thought  I used  to  lie, 

And  gaze  into  the  summer  sky, 

Where  the  sailing  clouds  went  by, 

Like  ships  upon  the  sea; 

Dreams  that  the  soul  of  youth  engage 
Ere  Fancy  has  been  quelled; 

Old  legends  of  the  monkish  page, 
Traditions  of  the  saint  and  sage, 

Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age, 

And  chronicles  of  eld. 

And,  loving  still  these  quaint  old  themes, 
Even  in  the  city’s  throng 
I feel  the  freshness  of  the  streams, 

That,  crossed  by  shades  and  sunny  gleams. 
Water  the  green  land  of  dreams, 

The  holy  land  of  song. 

Therefore,  at  Pentecost,  which  brings 
The  Spring,  clothed  like  a bride, 

When  nestling  buds  unfold  their  wings, 
And  bisliop’s-caps  have  golden  rings. 
Musing  upon  many  things, 

I sought  the  woodlands  wide. 


4 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


The  green  trees  whispered  low  and  mild ; 

It  was  a sound  of  joy  ! 

They  were  my  playmates  when  a child, 
And  rocked  me  in  their  arms  so  wild  ! 
Still  they  looked  at  me  and  smiled, 

As  if  I were  a boy  ; 


And  ever  whispered,  mild  and  low, 

“ Come,  be  a child  once  more  ! ” 

And  waved  their  long  arms  to  and  fro, 
And  beckoned  solemnly  and  slow  ; 

Oh,  I could  not  choose  but  go 
Into  the  woodlands  hoar, — 


Into  the  blithe  and  breathing  air, 

Into  the  solemn  wood, 

Solemn  and  silent  everywhere ! 

Nature  with  folded  hands  seemed  thete, 
Kneeling  at  her  evening  prayer ! 

Like  one  in  prayer  I stood. 

Before  me  rose  an  avenue 
Of  tall  and  sombrous  pines  ; 

Abroad  their  fan-like  branches  grew, 


And,  where  the  sunshine  darted  through, 
Spread  a vapor  soft  and  blue, 

In  long  and  sloping  lines. 

And,  falling  on  my  weary  brain, 

Like  a fast-falling  shower, 

The  dreams  of  youth  came  back  again,  — 
Low  lispings  of  the  summer  rain, 
Dropping  on  the  ripened  grain, 

As  once  upon  the  flower. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


Visions  of  childhood  ! Stay,  oh  stay ! 

Ye  were  so  sweet  and  wild  ! 

And  distant  voices  seemed  to  say, 

“It  cannot  be  ! They  pass  away ! 

Other  themes  demand  thy  lay  ; 

Thou  art  no  more  a child  ! 

“ The  land  of  Song  within  thee  lies, 
Watered  by  living  springs; 

The  lids  of  Fancy’s  sleepless  eyes 
Are  gates  unto  that  Paradise, 

Holy  thoughts,  like  stars,  arise, 

Its  clouds  are  angels’  wings. 

“ Learn,  that  henceforth  thy  song  shall  be, 
Not  mountains  capped  with  snow, 

Nor  forests  sounding  like  the  sea, 

Nor  rivers  flowing  ceaselessly, 

Where  the  woodlands  bend  to  see 
The  bending  heavens  below. 


“There  is  a forest  where  the  din 
Of  iron  branches  sounds  ! 

A mighty  river  roars  between, 

And  whosoever  looks  therein 
Sees  the  heavens  all  black  with  sin, 

Sees  not  its  depths,  nor  bounds. 

“ Athwart  the  swinging  branches  cast, 
Soft  rays  of  sunshine  pour; 

Then  comes  the  fearful  wintry  blast  ; 

Our  hopes,  like  withered  leaves,  fall  fast; 
Pallid  lips  say,  ‘It  is  past! 

We  can  return  no  more!’ 

“ Look,  then,  into  thine  heart,  and  write  ! 

Yes,  into  Life’s  deep  stream  ! 

All  forms  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

All  solemn  Voices  of  the  Night, 

That  can  soothe  thee,  or  affright,  — 

Be  these  henceforth  thy  theme.” 


HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT. 

’A<X77a<Tt»7,  TpiAAlOTOS. 


I heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 
Sweep  through  her  marble  halls  ! 

I saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with 
light 

From  the  celestial  walls ! 

I felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 
Stoop  o'er  me  from  above ; 

The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I love. 

I heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 
The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 

That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the 
Night, 

Like  some  old  poet’s  rhymes. 


From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 
My  spirit  drank  repose ; 

The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there,  — 
From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O holy  Night!  from  thee  I learn  to  bear 
What  man  has  borne  before  ! 

Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 
And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like  I breathe  this 
prayer ! 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight, 

The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most 
fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night ! 


5 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


A PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

WHAT  THE  HEART  OF  THE  YOUNG  MAN  SAID  TO  THE  PSALMIST. 


Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! — 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real  ! Life  is  earnest  ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal  ; 

Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world’s  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 


Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe’er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act,  — act  in  the  living  Present! 
Heart  within,  and  God  o’erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o’er  life’s  solemn  main, 

A forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a heart  for  any  fate  ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 


There  is  a Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death, 
And,  with  his  sickle  keen, 

He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a breath, 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

“Shall  I have  naught  that  is  fair?”  saith  he; 

“ Have  naught  but  the  bearded  grain  ? 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet 
to  me, 

I will  give  them  all  back  again.” 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 

He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves  ; 

It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 
He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

“ My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay,” 
The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled  ; 


“ Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 
Where  he  was  once  a child. 

“ They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 
Transplanted  by  my  care, 

And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 
These  sacred  blossoms  wear.  ’ 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 
The  flowers  she  most  did  love ; 

She  knew  she  should  find  them  all 
again 

In  the  fields  of  light  above. 

Oh,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath. 

The  Reaper  came  that  day ; 

’T  was  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 
And  took  the  flowers  away. 


11KNR  Y WA DS  WOE  TH  L ON  G FELL  0 IV 


7 


THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS. 


The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon; 

And  sinking  silently, 

All  silently,  the  little  moon 
Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love? 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams? 

Oh  no  ! from  that  blue  tent  above, 

A hero's  armor  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 
When  I behold  afar, 

Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

O star  of  strength  ! I see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain; 


Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
And  I am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 

I give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 

Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still. 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe’er  thou  art, 
That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 

As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 

Be  resolute  and  calm. 

Oh  fear  not  in  a world  like  this, 

And  thou  shalt  know  erelong, 

Know  how  sublime  a thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong. 


8 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANOxELS. 


When  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 
And  the  voices  of  the  Night 

Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 

To  a holy,  calm  delight ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 

And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  firelight 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall  ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 
Enter  at  the  open  door  ; 

The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  roadside  fell  and  perished, 

Weary  with  the  march  of  life! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 

Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 

Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more  ! 


And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 
More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a saint  in  heaven. 

With  a slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 
Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 

Is  the  spirit’s  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

Oh,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 
All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 

If  I but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died  ! 


FLOWERS. 


Spake  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and  olden, 
One  who  dwelleth  by  the  castled  Rhine, 

When  he  called  the  flowers,  so  blue  and  golden, 
Stars,  that  in  earth’s  firmament  do  shine. 

Stars  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  history, 
As  astrologers  and  seers  of  eld  ; 

Yet  not  wrapped  about  with  awful  mystery, 
Like  the  burning  stars,  which  they  beheld. 

Wondrous  truths,  and  manifold  as  wondrous, 
God  hath  written  in  those  stars  above; 

But  not  less  in  the  bright  flowerets  under  us 
Stands  the  revelation  of  his  love. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation, 

Written  all  over  this  great  world  of  ours; 

Making  evident  our  own  creation, 

In  these  stars  of  earth,  these  golden  flow- 
ers. 


And  the  Poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing, 

Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a part 
Of  the  self-same,  universal  being, 

Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and  heart. 

Gorgeous  flowerets  in  the  sunlight  shining, 
Blossoms  flaunting  in  the  eye  of  daj% 
Tremulous  leaves,  with  soft  and  silver  lining, 
Buds  that  open  only  to  decay  ; 

Brilliant  hopes,  all  woven  in  gorgeous  tissues, 
Flaunting  gayly  in  the  golden  fight; 

Large  desires,  with  most  uncertain  issues, 
Tender  wishes,  blossoming  at  night ! 

These  in  flowers  and  men  are  more  than  seem- 
ing > 

Workings  are  they  of  the  self-same  powers, 
Which  the  Poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 

Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers. 


HKNR  Y W A 1)S  WOR  TH  L ONGFELL  0 W. 


9 


Everywhere  about  us  are  they  glowing, 

Some  like  stars,  to  tell  us  Spring  is  born; 
Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  o’erflowing, 
Stand  like  Ruth  amid  the  golden  corn ; 


Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory, 

Not  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone, 
Hut  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary, 

On  the  tombs  of  heroes,  carved  in  stone; 


Not  alone  in  Spring’s  armorial  bearing, 

And  in  Summer’s  green-emblazoned  field, 
But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn’s  wearing, 
In  the  centre  of  his  brazen  shield  ; 

Not  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys, 

On  the  mountain-top,  and  by  the  brink 
Of  sequestered  pools  in  woodland  valleys, 
Where  the  slaves  of  nature  stoop  to  drink ; 


In  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant, 

In  ancestral  homes,  whose  crumbling  tow- 
ers, 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Present, 

Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers  ; 


In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 

Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul-like  wings, 
Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reasons, 

How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 


And  with  childlike,  credulous  affection 
We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand; 
Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection, 
Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land. 


THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY. 


I have  read,  in  some  old,  marvellous  tale, 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau’s  rushing  stream, 

With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 

There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 

The  army  of  the  dead. 


White  as  a sea-fog,  landward  bound, 
The  spectral  camp  was  seen, 

And,  with  a sorrowful,  deep  sound, 
The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 
No  drum,  nor  sentry’s  pace  ; 

The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air, 
As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 


10 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


But  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 
The  troubled  army  fled  ; 

Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

I have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life’s  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy’s  misty  light, 

Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 
Portentous  through  the  night. 


Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 
The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 

And,  with  a sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave ; 

No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life’s  wave. 

And  when  the  solemn  and  deep  churcli-bell 
Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 

The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 
The  shadows  sweep  away 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 
The  spectral  camp  is  fled ; 

Faith  shinetli  as  a morning  star, 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  TIIE  DYING  YEAR. 


Yes,  the  Year  is  growing  old, 

And  his  eye  is  pale  and  bleared  ! 
Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 
Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard, 
Sorely,  sorely  ! 


The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 
Solemnly  and  slow  ; 

Caw ! caw ! the  rooks  are  calling, 
It  is  a sound  of  woe, 

A sound  of  woe  ! 


HE  NR  Y WA  BS  IVOR  TH  L ON  OF  El.  L O W 


Through  woods  and  mountain  passes 
The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll ; 

They  are  chanting  solemn  masses, 

Singing,  “ Pray  for  this  poor  soul, 

Pray,  pray  ! ” 

And  the  hooded  clouds,  like  friars, 

Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain, 

And  patter  their  doleful  prayers  ; 

But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain, 

All  in  vain  ! 

There  he  stands  in  the  foul  weather, 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 

Crowned  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heather, 
Like  weak,  despised  Lear, 

A king,  a king  ! 

Then  comes  the  summer-like  day, 

Bids  the  old  man  rejoice! 

His  joy!  his  last!  Oh,  the  old  man  gray 
Lovetli  that  ever-soft  voice, 

Gentle  and  low. 

To  the  crimson  woods  he  saitli, 

To  the  voice  gentle  and  low 

Of  the  soft  air,  like  a daughter’s  breath, 

“ Pray  do  not  mock  me  so  ! 

Do  not  laugh  at  me  ! ” 


11 

And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead ; 

Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies  ; 

No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 
Over  the  glassy  skies, 

No  mist  or  stain  ! 

Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 

And  the  forests  utter  a moan, 

Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 
In  the  wilderness  alone, 

“ Vex  not  his  ghost ! ” 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roar, 

Gathering  and  sounding  on, 

The  storm-wind  from  Labrador, 

The  wind  Euroclydon, 

The  storm-wind  ! 

Howl ! howl  ! and  from  the  forest 
Sweep  the  red  leaves  away  ! 

Would,  the  sins  that  thou  abliorrest, 

O soul ! could  thus  decay, 

And  be  swept  away ! 

For  there  shall  come  a mightier  blast, 

There  shall  be  a darker  day : 

And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down-cast 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away  ! 

Kyrie,  eleyson  ! 

Christe,  eleyson  ! 


12 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


[These  poems  were  written  for  the  most  part  during  my  college  life,  and  all  of  them  before  the  age  of  nineteen.  Some 
have  found  their  way  into  schools,  and  seem  to  be  successful.  Others  lead  a vagabond  and  precarious  existence  in  the 
corners  of  newspapers;  or  have  changed  their  names  and  run  away  to  seek  their  fortunes  beyond  the  sea.  I say,  with 
the  Bishop  of  Avranches  on  a similar  occasion:  “I  cannot  be  displeased  to  see  these  children  of  mine,  which  I have  neg- 
lected, and  almost  exposed,  brought  from  their  wanderings  in  lanes  and  alleys,  and  safely  lodged,  in  order  to  go  forth 
into  the  world  together  in  a more  decorous  garb.”] 


AN  APRIL  DAY. 


When  the  warm  sun,  that  brings 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  has  returned  again, 

’T  is  sweet  to  visit  the  still  wood,  where  springs 
The  first  flower  of  the  plain. 

I love  the  season  well, 

When  forest  glades  are  teeming  with  bright 
forms, 

Nor  dark  and  many-folded  clouds  foretell 
The  coming-on  of  storms. 


When  the  bright  sunset  fills 
The  silver  woods  with  light,  the  green  slope 
throws 

Its  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills, 

And  wide  the  upland  glows. 

And  when  the  eve  is  born, 

In  the  blue  lake  the  sky,  o'er-reacliing  far, 

Is  hollowed  out,  and  the  moon  dips  her  horn, 
And  twinkles  many  a star. 


From  the  earth’s  loosened  mould 
The  sapling  draws  its  sustenance,  and  thrives; 
Though  stricken  to  the  heart  with  winter’s 
cold, 

The  drooping  tree  revives. 


Inverted  in  the  tide 

Stand  the  gray  rocks,  and  trembling  shadows 
throw, 

And  the  fair  trees  look  over,  side  by  side, 
And  see  themselves  below. 


The  softly- warbled  song 
Comes  from  the  pleasant  woods,  and  colored 
wings 

Glance  quick  in  the  bright  sun,  that  moves 
along 

The  forest  openings. 


Sweet  April  ! many  a thought 
Is  wedded  unto  thee,  as  hearts  are  wed ; 

Nor  shall  they  fail,  till,  to  its  autumn  brought, 
Life’s  golden  fruit  is  shed. 


HENR  Y IV A DS WO Ii Til  LON GFEL /, 0 W. 


13 


AUTUMN. 


With  what  a glory  comes  and  goes  the  year ! 
The  buds  of  spring,  those  beautiful  harbingers 
Of  sunny  skies  and  cloudless  times,  enjoy 
Life’s  newness,  and  earth’s  garniture  spread 
out  ; 

And  when  the  silver  habit  of  the  clouds 
Comes  down  upon  the  autumn  sun,  and  with 
A sober  gladness  the  old  year  takes  up 
His  bright  inheritance  of  golden  fruits, 

A pomp  and  pageant  fill  the  splendid  scene. 

There  is  a beautiful  spirit  breathing  now 
Its  mellow  richness  on  the  clustered  trees, 
And,  from  a beaker  full  of  richest  dyes, 
Pouring  new  glory  on  the  autumn  woods, 

And  dipping  in  warm  light  the  pillared  clouds. 
Morn  on  the  mountain,  like  a summer  bird, 
Lifts  up  her  purple  wing,  and  in  the  vales 
The  gentle  wind,  a sweet  and  passionate  wooer, 
Kisses  the  blushing  leaf,  and  stirs  up  life 
Within  the  solemn  woods  of  ash  deep-crim- 
soned, 

And  silver  beech,  and  maple  yellow-leaved, 
Where  Autumn,  like  a faint  old  man,  sits  down 
By  the  wayside  a-weary.  Through  the  trees 
The  golden  robin  moves.  The  purple  finch, 
That  on  wild  cherry  and  red  cedar  feeds, 

A winter  bird,  comes  with  its  plaintive  whistle, 
And  pecks  by  the  witch-hazel,  whilst  aloud 
From  cottage  roofs  the  warbling  blue-bird  sings, 
And  merrily,  with  oft-repeated  stroke, 

Sounds  from  the  threshing-floor  the  busy  flail. 

Oh,  what  a glory  doth  this  world  put  on 
For  him  who,  with  a fervent  heart,  goes  forth 
Under  the  bright  and  glorious  sky,  and  looks 
On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well  spent  ! 
For  him  the  wind,  ay,  and  the  yellow  leaves, 


Shall  have  a voice,  and  give  him  eloquent 
teachings. 

He  shall  so  hear  the  solemn  hymn  that  Death 
Has  lifted  up  for  all,  that  he  shall  go 
To  his  long  resting-place  without  a tear. 


WOODS  IN  WINTER. 


When  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill. 

And  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  gale, 
With  solemn  feet  I tread  the  hill, 

That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 


O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods, 
The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 
And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 


14 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 

The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, 

The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springs 
Pour  out  the  river’s  gradual  tide, 

Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 

And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas ! how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 


And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day  ! 

But  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods  ! within  your  crowd ; 
And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 
Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Chill  airs  and  wintry  winds  ! my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song ; 

I hear  it  in  the  opening  year, 

I listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

AT  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  PULASKI’S  BANNER. 


When  the  dying  flame  of  day 
Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 

Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 
Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head; 

And  the  censer  burning  swung, 

Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 

The  crimson  banner,  that  with  prayer 

Had  been  consecrated  there. 

And  the  nuns’  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the  while, 
Sung  low,  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle. 

“ Take  thy  banner  ! May  it  wave 
Proudly  o’er  the  good  and  brave  ; 

When  the  battle’s  distant  wail 


Breaks  the  sabbath  of  our  vale, 

When  the  clarion’s  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, 

When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes, 

And  the  sti-ong  lance  shivering  breaks 

“ Take  thy  banner ! and,  beneath 
The  battle-cloud’s  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it,  till  our  homes  are  free  ! 

Guard  it ! God  will  prosper  thee  ! 

In  the  dark  and  trying  hour, 

In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 

In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 

H is  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 


HENli  Y IV  A VS  II  OR  TH  L ON GF EL  L 0 W. 


“ Take  thy  banner  ! But  when  night 
Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight, 

If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 

Spare  him ! By  our  holy  vow, 

By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 

By  the  mercy,  that  endears, 

Spare  him  ! he  our  love  hath  shared  ! 
Spare  him  ! as  thou  wouldst  be  spared  ! 


“ Take  thy  banner ! and  if  e'er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier’s  bier, 
And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 

Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  sliroud  for  thee.-’ 

The  warrior  took  that  banner  proud, 

And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud! 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  HILLS. 


I stood  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven’s  wide 
arch 

Was  glorious  with  the  sun’s  returning  march, 
And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft  gales 
Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 

The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me  ; bathed  in 
light, 

They  gathered  mid-way  round  the  wooded 
height, 

And,  in  their  fading  glory,  shone 
Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown, 

As  many  a pinnacle,  with  shifting  glance. 
Through  the  gray  mist  thrust  up  its  shattered 
lance, 

And  rocking  on  the  cliff  was  left 
The  dark  pine  blasted,  bare,  and  cleft. 

The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted,  and  below 
Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  river’s  flow 
Was  darkened  by  the  forest’s  shade, 

Or  glistened  in  the  white  cascade  ; 

Where  upward,  in  the  mellow  blush  of  day, 
The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 


I heard  the  distant  waters  dash, 

I saw  the  current  whirl  and  flash, 

And  richly,  by  the  blue  lake’s  silver  beach. 
The  woods  were  bending  with  a silent  reach. 
Then  o’er  the  vale,  with  gentle  swell, 

The  music  of  the  village  bell 
Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills ; 

And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  woodland 
fills, 

Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout, 

That  faint  and  far  the  glen  sent  out, 

Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot,  thin 
smoke, 

Through  thick-leaved  branches,  from  the  dingle 
broke. 

If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows,  that  thou  wouldst  forget, 

If  thou  wouldst  read  a lesson,  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from  sleep. 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills  ! No  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 


There  is  a quiet  spirit  in  these  woods, 

That  dwells  where’er  the  gentle  south-wind 
blows  ; 

Where,  underneath  the  white-thorn,  in  the 
glade, 

The  wild  flowers  bloom,  or,  kissing  the  soft 
air, 

The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  outspread. 

With  what  a tender  and  impassioned  voice 

It  fills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought, 


When  the  fast  ushering  star  of  morning  comes 
O’er-riding  the  gray  hills  with  golden  scarf  ; 
Or  when  the  cowled  and  dusky-sandaled  Eve, 
In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western  gate. 
Departs  with  silent  pace  ! That  spirit  moves 
In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver  brook, 
From  its'  full  laver,  pours  the  white  cascade; 
And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled  woods, 
Slips  down  through  moss-grown  stones  with 
endless  laughter. 


16 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills, 
rts  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 
In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm, 
And  shouts  the  stern,  strong  wind.  And  here, 
amid 

The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods, 

Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts  from 
earth, 

As  to  the  sunshine  and  the  pure,  bright  air 
Their  tops  the  green  trees  lift.  Hence  gifted 
bards 

Have  ever  loved  the  calm  and  quiet  shades. 


For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in  all 
The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods,  the  golden  sun, 
The  flowers,  the  leaves,  the  river  on  its  way, 
Blue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and  gentle  winds, 
The  swelling  upland,  where  the  sidelong  sun 
Aslant  the  wooded  slope,  at  evening,  goes, 
Groves,  through  whose  broken  roof  the  sky 
looks  in, 

Mountain,  and  shattered  cliff,  and  sunny  vale, 
The  distant  lake,  fountains,  and  mighty  trees, 
In  many  a lazy  syllable,  repeating 
Their  old  poetic  legends  to  the  wind. 


And  this  is  the  sweet  spirit,  that  doth  fill 
The  world ; and,  in  these  wayward  days  of 
youth, 

My  busy  fancy  oft  embodies  it, 

As  a bright  image  of  the  light  and  beauty 
That  dwell  in  nature ; of  the  heavenly  forms 
We  worship  in  our  dreams,  and  the  soft  hues 
That  stain  the  wild  bird’s  wing,  and  flush  the 
clouds 

When  the  sun  sets.  Within  her  tender  eye 
The  heaven  of  April,  with  its  changing  light, 
And  when  it  wears  the  blue  of  May,  is 
hung, 


And  on  her  lip  the  rich,  red  rose.  Her  hair 
Is  like  the  summer  tresses  of  the  frees, 

When  twilight  makes  them  brown,  and  on  her 
cheek 

Blushes  the  richness  of  an  autumn  sky, 

With  ever-shifting  beauty.  Then  her  breath, 
It  is  so  like  the  gentle  air  of  Spring, 

As,  from  the  morning’s  dewy  flowers,  it  comes 
Full  of  their  fragrance,  that  it  is  a joy 
To  have  it  round  us,  and  her  silver  voice 
Is  the  rich  music  of  a summer  bird, 

Heard  in  the  still  night,  with  its  passionate 
cadence. 


HENR  Y IV A DS  IVOR  TH  L ONGFELL  O W 


17 


BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK. 


On  sunny  slope  and  beeclien  swell, 

The  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell : 

And,  where  the  maple’s  leaf  was  brown, 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down, 
The  glory,  that  the  wood  receives, 

At  sunset,  in  its  golden  leaves. 

Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 

Rose  the  blue  hills.  One  cloud  of  white, 

Around  a far  uplifted  cone, 

In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone  ; 

An  image  of  the  silver  lakes, 

By  which  the  Indian’s  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a funeral  hymn  was  heard 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest ; and  a band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand, 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave, 

To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 

They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers, 
And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warrior’s  head  ; 

But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 

So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 

3 


A dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck’s  skin 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
Its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid  ; 
The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds, 

And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads. 

Before,  a dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death  dirge  of  the  slain  ; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 

With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief, 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress, 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless, 

With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread, 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread, 

He  came  ; and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 

They  buried  the  dark  chief ; they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle  steed ; 

And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart ! One  piercing  neigh 
Arose,  and,  on  the  dead  man’s  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 


18 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


[Don  Jorge  Manrique,  the  author  of  the  following  poem,  flourished  in  the  last  half  of  the  fifteenth  century.  He  fol- 
lowed the  profession  of  arms,  and  died  on  the  field  of  battle.  Mariana,  in  his  History  of  Spain,  makes  honorable  mention 
of  him,  as  being  present  at  the  siege  of  Ucles;  and  speaks  of  him  as  “ a youth  of  estimable  qualities,  who  in  this  war 
gave  brilliant  proofs  of  his  valor.  He  died  young;  and  was  thus  cut  off  from  long  exercising  his  great  virtues,  and  ex- 
hibiting to  the  world  the  light  of  his  genius,  which  was  already  known  to  fame.”  He  was  mortally  wounded  in  a skir- 
mish near  Canavete,  in  the  year  1479. 

The  name  of  Rodrigo  Manrique,  the  father  of  the  poet,  Conde  de  Paredes  and  Maestre  dc  Santiago,  is  well  known 
in  Spanish  history  and  song.  He  died  in  1476;  according  to  Mariana,  in  the  town  of  Ucles;  but,  according  to  the  poem 
of  his  son,  in  Ocana.  It  was  his  death  that  called  forth  the  poem  upon  which  rests  the  literary  reputation  of  the  younger 
Manrique.  In  the  language  of  his  historian,  “ Don  Jorge  Manrique,  in  an  elegant  Ode,  full  of  poetic  beauties,  rich  em- 
bellishments of  genius,  and  high  moral  reflections,  mourned  the  death  of  his  father  as  with  a funeral  hymn.”  This 
praise  is  not  exaggerated.  The  poem  is  a model  in  its  kind.  Its  conception  is  solemn  and  beautiful;  and,  in  accordance 
with  it,  the  style  moves  on, — calm,  dignified,  and  majestic.] 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 


FROM 

Oh  let  the  soul  her  slumbers  break, 

Let  thought  be  quickened,  and  awake  ; 
Awake  to  see 

How  soon  this  life  is  past  and  gone, 

• And  death  comes  softly  stealing  on, 

How  silently  ! 

Swiftly  our  pleasures  glide  away, 

Our  hearts  recall  the  distant  day 
With  many  sighs  ; 

The  moments  that  are  speeding  fast 
We  heed  not,  but  the  past,  — the  past, 
More  highly  prize. 

Onward  its  course  the  present  keeps, 
Onward  the  constant  current  sweeps, 

Till  life  is  done  ; 

And,  did  we  judge  of  time  aright, 

The  past  and  future  in  their  flight 
Would  be  as  one. 

Let  no  one  fondly  dream  again, 

That  Hope  and  all  her  shadowy  train 
Will  not  decay  ; 


THE  SPANISH. 

• 

Fleeting  as  were  the  dreams  of  old, 
Remembered  like  a tale  that ’s  told, 
'They  pass  away. 

Our  lives  are  rivers,  gliding  free 
To  that  unfathomed,  boundless  sea, 

The  silent  grave ! 

Thither  all  earthly  pomp  and  boast 
Roll,  to  be  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  one  dark  wave. 

Thither  the  mighty  torrents  stray, 
Thither  the  brook  pursues  its  way, 

And  tinkling  rill. 

There  all  are  equal ; side  by  side 
The  poor  man  and  the  son  of  pride 
Lie  calm  and  still. 

I will  not  here  invoke  the  throng 
Of  orators  and  sons  of  song, 

The  deathless  few  ; 

Fiction  entices  and  deceives, 

And,  sprinkled  o’er  her  fragrant  leaves, 
Lies  poisonous  dew. 


HENR  7 WA  DS  IVOR  Til  L ON O FELL  0 )V. 


19 


To  One  alone  my  thoughts  arise, 

The  Eternal  Truth,  the  Good  and  Wise, 
To  Him  I cry, 

Who  shared  on  earth  our  common  lot, 
But  the  world  comprehended  not 
His  deity. 


This  world  is  but  the  rugged  road 
Which  leads  us  to  the  bright  abode 
Of  peace  above ; 

So  let  us  choose  that  narrow  way, 
Which  leads  no  traveller's  foot  astray 
From  realms  of  love. 


Our  cradle  is  the  starting-place. 

Life  is  the  running  of  the  race, 

We  reach  the  goal 

When,  in  tlie  mansions  of  the  blest. 

Death  leaves  to  its  eternal  rest 
The  weary  soul. 

Did  we  but  use  it  as  we  ought, 

This  world  would  school  each  wandering  thought 

O o 

To  its  high  state. 

Faith  wings  the  soul  beyond  the  sky, 

Up  to  that  better  world  on  high, 

For  which  we  wait. 

Yes,  the  glad  messenger  of  love, 

To  guide  us  to  our  home  above, 

The  Saviour  came ; 

Born  amid  mortal  cai’es  and  fears, 

He  suffered  in  this  vale  of  tears 
A death  of  shame. 


Behold  of  what  delusive  worth 
The  bubbles  we  pursue  on  earth, 

The  shapes  we  chase, 

Amid  a world  of  treachery  ! 

They  vanish  ere  death  shuts  the  eye, 

And  leave  no  trace. 

Time  steals  them  from  us,  chances  strange, 
Disastrous  accident,  and  change, 

That  come  to  all  ; 

Even  in  the  most  exalted  state, 

Relentless  sweeps  the  stroke  of  fate  j 
The  strongest  fall. 

Tell  me,  the  charms  that  lovers  seek 
In  the  clear  eye  and  blushing  cheek, 

The  hues  that  play 

O’er  rosy  lip  and  brow  of  snow. 

When  hoary  age  approaches  slow, 

Ah,  where  are  they  ? 


20 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


The  cunning  skill,  the  curious  arts, 

The  glorious  strength  that  youth  imparts 
In  life’s  first  stage  ; 

These  shall  become  a heavy  weight, 

When  Time  swings  wide  his  outward  gate 
To  weary  age. 

The  noble  blood  of  Gothic  name, 

Heroes  emblazoned  high  to  fame, 

In  long  array ; 

How,  in  the  onward  course  of  time, 

The  landmarks  of  that  race  sublime 
Were  swept  away  ! 

Some,  the  degraded  slaves  of  lust, 

Prostrate  and  trampled  in  the  dust, 

Shall  rise  no  more ; 

Others,  by  guilt  and  crime,  maintain 
The  scutcheon,  that,  without  a stain, 

Their  fathers  bore. 

Wealth  and  the  high  estate  of  pride, 

With  what  untimely  speed  they  glide, 

How  soon  depart ! 

Bid  not  the  shadowy  phantoms  stay, 

The  vassals  of  a mistress  they, 

Of  fickle  heart. 

These  gifts  in  Fortune’s  hands  are  found  ; 
Her  swift  revolving  wheel  turns  round, 
And  they  are  gone  ! 

No  rest  the  inconstant  goddess  knows, 

But  changing,  and  without  repose, 

Still  hurries  on. 

Even  could  the  hand  of  avarice  save 
Its  gilded  baubles,  till  the  grave 
Reclaimed  its  prey, 

Let  none  on  such  poor  hopes  rely ; 

Life,  like  an  empty  dream,  flits  by, 

And  where  are  they  ? 

Earthly  desires  and  sensual  lust 
Are  passions  springing  from  the  dust, 

They  fade  and  die ; 

But,  in  the  life  beyond  the  tomb, 

They  seal  the  immortal  spirit’s  doom 
Eternally  ! 

The  pleasures  and  delights,  which  mask 


In  treacherous  smiles  life’s  serious  task, 
What  are  they,  all, 

But  the  fleet  coursers  of  the  chase, 

And  death  an  ambush  in  the  race, 
Wherein  we  fall? 

No  foe,  no  dangerous  pass,  we  heed, 
Brook  no  delay,  but  onward  speed 
With  loosened  rein  ; 

And,  when  the  fatal  snare  is  near, 

We  strive  to  check  our  mad  career, 

But  strive  in  vain. 

Could  we  new  charms  to  age  impart, 
And  fashion  with  a cunning  art 
The  human  face, 

As  we  can  clothe  the  soul  with  light, 
And  make  the  glorious  spirit  bright 
With  heavenly  grace, 

How  busily  each  passing  hour 
Should  we  exert  that  magic  power, 

What  ardor  show, 

To  deck  the  sensual  slave  of  sin, 

Yet  leave  the  freeborn  soul  within, 

In  weeds  of  woe  ! 

Monarchs,  the  powerful  and  the  strong, 
Famous  in  history  and  in  song 
Of  olden  time, 

Saw,  by  the  stern  decrees  of  fate, 

Their  kingdoms  lost,  and  desolate 
Their  race  sublime. 

Who  is  the  champion?  who  the  strong? 
Pontiff  and  priest,  and  sceptred  throng? 
On  these  shall  fall 
As  heavily  the  hand  of  Death, 

As  when  it  stays  the  shepherd’s  breath 
Beside  his  stall. 

I speak  not  of  the  Trojan  name, 

Neither  its  glory  nor  its  shame 
Has  met  our  eyes  ; 

Nor  of  Rome’s  great  and  glorious  dead. 
Though  we  have  heard  so  oft,  and  read, 
Their  histories. 

Little  avails  it  now  to  know 
Of  ages  passed  so  long  ago, 


IIENR  Y IV A DS  IVOR  Til  L ONGFEL L 0 IV. 


21 


Nor  how  they  rolled  ; 

Our  theme  shall  be  of  yesterday, 

Which  to  oblivion  sweeps  away, 

Like  days  of  old. 

Where  is  the  King,  Don  Juan?  Where 
Each  royal  prince  and  noble  heir 
Of  Aragon  ? 

Where  are  the  courtly  gallantries  ? 

The  deeds  of  love  and  high  emprise, 

In  battle  done  ? 

Tourney  and  joust,  that  charmed  the  eye, 
And  scarf,  and  gorgeous  panoply, 

And  nodding  plume, 

What  were  they  but  a pageant  scene  ? 


What  but  the  garlands,  gay  and  green, 

That  deck  the  tomb  ? 

Where  are  the  high-born  dames,  and  where 
Their  gay  attire,  and  jewelled  hair, 

And  odors  sweet  ? 

Where  are  the  gentle  knights,  that  came 
To  kneel,  and  breathe  love’s  ardent  flame, 
Low  at  their  feet  ? 

Where  is  the  song  of  Troubadour  ? 

Where  are  the  lute  and  gay  tambour 
They  loved  of  yore  ? 

Where  is  the  mazy  dance  of  old, 

The  flowing  robes,  inwrought  with  gold, 
The  dancers  wore  ? 


And  he  who  next  the  sceptre  swayed, 
Henry,  whose  royal  court  displayed 
Such  power  and  pride  ; 

Oh,  in  what  winning  smiles  arrayed, 
The  world  its  various  pleasures  laid 
His  throne  beside  ! 

But  oh,  how  false  and  full  of  guile 
That  world,  which  wore  so  soft  a smile 
But  to  betray  ! 

She,  that  had  been  his  friend  before, 
Now  from  the  fated  monarch  tore 
Her  charms  away. 


The  countless  gifts,  the  stately  walls, 

The  royal  palaces,  and  halls 
All  filled  with  gold  ; 

Plate  with  armorial  bearings  wrought, 
Chambers  with  ample  treasures  fraught 
Of  wealth  untold ; 

The  noble  steeds,  and  harness  bright, 
And  gallant  lord,  and  stalwart  knight, 

In  rich  array, 

Where  shall  we  seek  them  now  ? Alas  ! 
Like  the  bright  dewclrops  on  the  grass, 
They  passed  away. 


22 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


His  brother,  too,  whose  factious  zeal 
Usurped  the  sceptre  of  Castile, 

Unskilled  to  reign  ; 

What  a gay,  brilliant  court  had  he, 
When  all  the  flower  of  chivalry 
Was  in  his  train  ! 

But  he  was  mortal  ; and  the  breath, 

That  flamed  from  the  hot  forge  of  Death, 
Blasted  his  years  ; 

Judgment  of  God!  that  flame  by  thee, 
When  raging  fierce  and  fearfully, 

Was  quenched  in  tears ! 

Spain's  haughty  Constable,  the  true 
And  gallant  Master,  whom  we  knew 
Most  loved  of  all ; 

Breathe  not  a whisper  of  his  pride, 

He  on  the  gloomy  scaffold  died, 

Ignoble  fall ! 

The  countless  treasures  of  his  care, 

His  villages  and  villas  fair, 

His  mighty  power, 

What  were  they  all  but  grief  and  shame, 
Tears  and  a broken  heart,  when  came 
The  parting  hour  ? 

His  other  brothers,  proud  and  high, 
Masters,  who,  in  prosperity, 

Might  rival  kings  ; 

Who  made  the  bravest  and  the  best 
The  bondsmen  of  their  high  behest, 

Their  underlings ; 

What  was  their  prosperous  estate, 

When  high  exalted  and  elate 
With  power  and  pride  ? 

What,  but  a transient  gleam  of  light, 

A flame,  which,  glaring  at  its  height, 
Grew  dim  and  died  ? 

So  many  a duke  of  royal  name, 

Marquis  and  count  of  spotless  fame, 

And  baron  brave, 

That  might  the  sword  of  empire  wield, 
All  these,  O Death,  hast  thou  concealed 
In  the  dark  grave  ! 

Their  deeds  of  mercy  and  of  arms, 


In  peaceful  days,  or  war's  alarms, 

When  thou  dost  show. 

O Death,  thy  stern  and  angry  face, 

One  stroke  of  thy  all-powerful  mace 
Can  overthrow. 

Unnumbered  hosts,  that  threaten  nigh, 
Pennon  and  standard  flaunting  high, 

And  flag  displayed : 

High  battlements  intrenched  around, 
Bastion,  and  moated  wall,  and  mound, 

And  palisade, 

And  covered  trench,  secure  and  deep, 

All  these  cannot  one  victim  keep, 

O Death,  from  thee, 

When  thou  dost  battle  in  thy  wrath. 

And  thy  strong  shafts  pursue  their  path 
Unerringly. 

O World!  so  few  the  years  we  live, 

Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 
Were  life  indeed  ! 

Alas  ! thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast, 

Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 
The  soul  is  freed. 

Our  days  are  covered  o’er  with  grief, 

And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 
Veil  all  in  gloom  ; 

Left  desolate  of  real  good, 

Within  this  cheerless  solitude 
No  pleasures  bloom. 

Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 

And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 

Or  dark  despair  ; 

Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 

That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 

Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a groan, 
By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 

And  weary  hearts  ; 

Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 

But  with  a lingering  step  and  slow 
Its  form  departs. 

And  he,  the  good  man's  shield  and  shade, 
To  whom  all  hearts  their  homage  paid, 


HliNJi  Y WA  DS  IVOR  TH  L ONGFELL  0 IV. 


As  Virtue’s  son, 

Roderic  Manrique,  lie  whose  name 
Is  written  on  the  scroll  of  Fame, 

Spain’s  champion  ; 

His  signal  deeds  and  prowess  high 
Demand  no  pompous  eulogy, 

Ye  saw  his  deeds ! 

Why  should  their  praise  in  verse  be  sung  ? 
The  name,  that  dwells  on  every  tongue, 

No  minstrel  needs. 

To  friends  a friend ; how  kind  to  all 
The  vassals  of  this  ancient  hall 
And  feudal  fief  ! 

To  foes  how  stern  a foe  was  he  ! 

And  to  the  valiant  and  the  free 
How  brave  a chief  ! 

What  prudence  with  the  old  and  wise  : 
What  grace  in  youthful  gayeties  ; 

In  all  how  sage  ! 

Benignant  to  the  serf  and  slave, 

He  showed  the  base  and  falsely  brave 
A lion’s  rage. 

His  was  Octavian’s  prosperous  star, 

The  rush  of  Caesar’s  conquering  car 


At  battle's  call ; 

His,  Scipio’s  virtue  ; his,  the  skill 
And  the  indomitable  will 
Of  Hannibal. 

His  was  a Trajan’s  goodness,  his 
A Titus’  noble  charities 
And  righteous  laws  ; 

The  arm  of  Hector,  and  the  might 
Of  Tully,  to  maintain  the  right 
In  truth's  just  cause ; 

The  clemency  of  Antonine, 

Aurelius’  countenance  divine, 

Firm,  gentle,  still  ; 

The  eloquence  of  Adrian, 

And  Theodosius’  love  to  man, 

And  generous  will ; 

In  tented  field  and  bloody  fray, 

An  Alexander's  vigorous  sway 
And  stern  command  ; 

The  faith  of  Constantine  ; ay,  more, 
The  fervent  love  Camillus  bore 
His  native  land. 

He  left  no  well-filled  treasury, 

He  heaped,  no  pile  of  riches  high, 


24 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Nor  massive  plate  ; 

He  fouglit  the  Moors,  and,  in  their  fall, 
City  and  tower  and  castled  wall 
Were  his  estate. 

Upon  the  hard-fought  battle-ground, 

Brave  steeds  and  gallant  riders  found 
A common  grave ; 

And  there  the  warrior’s  hand  did  gain 
The  rents,  and  the  long  vassal  train, 

That  conquest  gave. 

And  if,  of  old,  his  halls  displayed 
The  honored  and  exalted  grade 
His  worth  had  gained, 

So,  in  the  dark,  disastrous  hour, 

Brothers  and  bondsmen  of  his  power 
His  hand  sustained. 

After  high  deeds,  not  left  untold, 

In  the  stern  warfare,  which  of  old 
’T  wqs  his  to  share, 

Such  noble  leagues  he  made,  that  more 
And  fairer  regions,  than  before, 

His  guerdon  were. 

These  are  the  records,  half  effaced, 

Which,  with  the  hand  of  youth,  he  traced 
On  history’s  page  ; 

But  with  fresh  victories  he  drew 
Each  fading  character  anew 
In  his  old  age. 

By  his  unrivalled  skill,  by  great 
And  veteran  service  to  the  state, 

By  worth  adored, 

He  stood,  in  his  high  dignity, 

The  proudest  knight  of  chivalry, 

Knight  of  the  Sword. 

He  found  his  cities  and  domains 
Beneath  a tyrant’s  galling  chains 
And  cruel  power  ; 

But,  by  fierce  battle  and  blockade. 

Soon  his  own  banner  was  displayed 
From  every  tower. 

By  the  tried  valor  of  his  hand, 

His  monarch  and  his  native  land 
Were  nobly  served; 

Let  Portugal  repeat  the  story, 


And  proud  Castile,  who  shared  the  glory 
His  arms  deserved. 

And  when  so  oft,  for  weal  or  woe, 

His  life  upon  the  fatal  throw 
Had  been  cast  down  ; 

When  he  had  served,  with  patriot  zeal, 
Beneath  the  banner  of  Castile, 

His  sovereign's  crown  ; 

And  done  such  deeds  of  valor  strong, 
That  neither  history  nor  song 
Can  count  them  all ; 

Then,  on  Ocana’s  castled  rock, 

Death  at  his  portal  came  to  knock, 

With  sudden  call, 

Saying,  “ Good  Cavalier,  prepare 
To  leave  this  world  of  toil  and  care 
With  joyful  mien  ; 

Let  thy  sti-ong  heart  of  steel  this  day 
Put  on  its  armor  for  the  fray, 

The  closing  scene. 

“ Since  thou  hast  been,  in  battle-strife, 

So  prodigal  of  health  and  life, 

For  earthly  fame, 

Let  virtue  nerve  thy  heart  again ; 

Loud  on  the  last  stern  battle-plain 
They  call  thy  name. 

“ Think  not  the  struggle  that  draws  near 
Too  terrible  for  man,  nor  fear 
To  meet  the  foe ; 

Nor  let  thy  noble  spirit  grieve, 

Its  life  of  glorious  fame  to  leave 
On  earth  below. 

“A  life  of  honor  and  of  worth 
Has  no  eternity  on  earth, 

’T  is  but  a name  ; 

And  yet  its  glory  far  exceeds 

That  base  and  sensual  life,  which  leads 

To  want  and  shame. 

“ The  eternal  life,  beyond  the  sky, 
Wealth  cannot  purchase,  nor  the  high 
And  proud  estate ; 

The  soul  in  dalliance  laid,  the  spirit 
Corrupt  with  sin,  shall  not  inherit 
A joy  so  great. 


IIENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


25 


“ But  the  good  monk,  in  cloistered  cell. 

Shall  gain  it  by  his  book  and  bell. 

His  prayers  and  tears ; 

And  the  brave  knight,  whose  arm  endures 
Fierce  battle,  and  against  the  Moors 
His  standard  rears. 

“ And  thou,  brave  knight,  whose  hand  has 
poured 

The  life-blood  of  the  Pagan  horde 
O’er  all  the  land, 

In  heaven  shalt  thou  receive,  at  length, 

The  guerdon  of  thine  earthly  strength 
And  dauntless  hand. 

“ Cheered  onward  by  this  promise  sure. 
Strong  in  the  faith  entire  and  pure 
Thou  dost  profess, 

Depart,  thy  hope  is  certainty, 

The  third,  the  better  life  on  high 
Shalt  thou  possess.” 

“ O Death,  no  more,  no  more  delay ; 

My  spirit  longs  to  dee  away, 

And  be  at  rest ; 

The  will  of  Heaven  my  will  shall  be, 

I bow  to  the  divine  decree, 

To  God’s  behest. 

“ My  soul  is  ready  to  depart, 

No  thought  rebels,  the  obedient  heart 
Breathes  forth  no  sigh  ; 


The  wish  on  earth  to  linger  still 
Were  vain,  when  t is  God’s  sovereign 
will 

That  we  shall  die. 

“ O thou,  that  for  our  sins  didst  take 
A human  form,  and  humbly  make 
Thy  home  on  earth  ; 

Thou,  that  to  thy  divinity 
A human  nature  didst  ally 
By  mortal  birth, 

“ And  in  that  form  didst  suffer  here 
Torment,  and  agony,  and  fear, 

So  patiently ; 

By  thy  redeeming  grace  alone, 

And  not  for  merits  of  my  own, 

Oh,  pardon  me  ! ” 

As  thus  the  dying  warrior  prayed, 
Without  one  gathering  mist  or  shade 
Upon  his  mind  ; 

Encircled  by  his  family, 

Watched  by  affection’s  gentle  eye 
So  soft  and  kind  ; 

His  soul  to  Him,  who  gave  it,  rose  ; 
God  lead  it  to  its  long  repose, 

Its  glorious  rest ! 

And,  though  the  warrior’s  sun  has  set, 
Its  light  shall  linger  round  us  yet, 
Bright,  radiant,  blest. 


THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  LOPE  DE  VEGA, 


Shepherd  ! who  with  thine  amorous,  sylvan 
song 

Hast  broken  the  slumber  that  encompassed 
me, 

Who  mad’st  thy  crook  from  the  accursed 
tree, 

On  which  thy  powerful  arms  were  stretched 
so  long  ! 

Lead  me  to  mercy’s  ever-flowing  fountains; 

For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and  guide 
shalt  be  ; 


I will  obey  thy  voice,  and  wait  to  see 
Thy  feet  all  beautiful  upon  the  mountains. 

Hear,  Shepherd  ! thou  who  for  thy  flock  art 
dying, 

Oh,  wash  away  these  scarlet  sins,  for  thou 
Rejoicest  at  the  contrite  sinner’s  vow. 

Oh,  wait ! to  thee  my  weary  soul  is  crying, 
Wait  for  me!  Yet  why  ask  it,  when  I 
see, 

With  feet  nailed  to  the  cross,  thou  ’rt  wait- 
ing still  for  me  ! 


4 


26 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


TO-MORROW. 


FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  LOPE  DE  VEGA. 


Lord,  what  am  I,  that,  with  unceasing  care, 
Thou  didst  seek  after  me,  that  thou  didst  wait, 
Wet  with  unhealthy  dews,  before  my  gate, 
And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there? 
Oh,  strange  delusion!  that  I did  not  greet 
Thy  blest  approach,  and  oh,  to  Heaven  how 
lost, 

If  my  ingratitude’s  unkindly  frost 
Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  thy 
feet. 


How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 

“ Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,  and  thou 
slialt  see 

How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for 
thee  !” 

And,  oh ! how  often  to  that  voice  of  sor- 
row, 

“ To-morrow  we  will  open,”  I replied, 

And  when  the  morrow  came  I answered  still, 
“ To-morrow.” 


THE  NATIVE  LAND. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  FRANCISCO  DE  ALDANA. 


Clear  fount  of  light ! my  native  land  on 
high, 

Bright  with  a glory  that  shall  never  fade ! 
Mansion  of  truth ! without  a veil  or  shade, 
Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit’s  eye. 
There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal  essence, 
Gasping  no  longer  for  life’s  feeble  breath; 
But,  sentinelled  in  heaven,  its  glorious  pres- 
ence 


With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not, 
death. 

Beloved  country  ! banished  from  thy  shore, 

A stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay, 
The  exiled  spirit  weeps  and  sighs  for  thee ! 
Heavenward  the  bright  perfections  I adore 
Direct,  and  the  sure  promise  cheers  the  way, 
That,  whither  love  aspires,  there  shall  my 
dwelling  be. 


THE  IMAGE  OF  GOD. 


FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  FRANCISCO  DE  ALDANA. 


O Lord  ! who  seest,  from  yon  starry  height, 
Centred  in  one  the  future  and  the  past, 
Fashioned  in  thine  own  image,  see  how  fast 
The  world  obscures  in  me  what  once  was 
bright ! 

Eternal  Sun ! the  warmth  which  thou  hast 
given, 

To  cheer  life’s  flowery  April,  fast  decays; 
Yet,  in  the  hoary  winter  of  my  days, 
Forever  green  shall  be  my  trust  in  Heaven. 
Celestial  King  ! oh  let  thy  presence  pass 
Before  my  spirit,  and  an  image  fair 
Shall  meet  that  look  of  mercy  from  on  high, 
As  the  reflected  image  in  a glass 


Doth  meet  the  look  of  him  who  seeks  it 
there, 

And  owes  its  being  to  the  gazer's  eye. 


HENR  V WA  DS  W OR  TH  I . ON  GFEL  L O W 


THE  BROOK. 


FROM  THE  SPANISH. 

Laugh  of  the  mountain ! — lyre  of  bird  and 
tree ! 

Pomp  of  the  meadow  ! mirror  of  the  morn  ! 
The  soul  of  April,  unto  whom  are  born 
The  rose  and  jessamine,  leaps  wild  in  thee  ! 
Although,  where’er  thy  devious  current  strays, 
The  lap  of  earth  with  gold  and  silver  teems, 
To  me  thy  clear  proceeding  brighter  seems 
Than  golden  sands,  that  charm  each  shep- 
herd’s gaze. 

How  without  guile  thy  bosom,  all  transparent 
As  the  pure  crystal,  lets  the  curious  eye 
Thy  secrets  scan,  thy  smooth,  round  pebbles 
count ! 

How,  without  malice  murmuring,  glides  thy 
current ! 

O sweet  simplicity  of  days  gone  by  ! 

Thou  shun'st  the  haunts  of  man,  to  dwell  in 
limpid  fount ! 


THE  CELESTIAL  PILOT. 

FROM  DANTE.  PURGATORIO,  II. 


And  now,  behold ! as  at  the  approach  of  morn- 
ing, 

Through  the  gross  vapors,  Mars  grows  fiery 
red 

Down  in  the  west  upon  the  ocean  floor, 
Appeared  to  me,  — may  I again  behold  it ! 

A light  along  the  sea,  so  swiftly  coming, 

Its  motion  by  no  flight  of  wing  is  equalled. 
And  when  therefrom  I had  withdrawn  a little 

Mine  eyes,  that  I might  question  my  con- 
ductor, 


Again  I saw  it  brighter  grown  and  larger. 
Thereafter,  on  all  sides  of  it,  appeared 

I knew  not  what  of  white,  and  underneath, 
Little  by  little,  there  came  forth  another. 
My  master  yet  had  uttered  not  a word, 
While  the  first  whiteness  into  wings  un- 
folded ; 

But,  when  he  clearly  recognized  the  pilot. 
He  cried  aloud  : “ Quick,  quick,  and  bow  the 
knee ! 

Behold  the  Angel  of  God!  fold  up  thy  hands! 


28 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Henceforward  shalt  thou  see  such  officers  ! 

See,  how  he  scorns  all  human  arguments, 

So  that  no  oar  he  wants,  nor  other  sail 
Than  his  own  wings,  between  so  distant 
shores ! 

See,  how  he  holds  them,  pointed  straight  to 
heaven, 

Fanning  the  air  with  the  eternal  pinions, 
That  do  not  moult  themselves  like  mortal 
hair ! ” 

And  then,  as  nearer  and  more  near  us  came 
The  Bird  of  Heaven,  more  glorious  he  ap- 
peared, 


So  that  the  eye  could  not  sustain  his  presence, 
But  down  I cast  it  ; and  he  came  to  shore 
With  a small  vessel,  gliding  swift  and  light, 
So  that  the  water  swallowed  naught  thereof. 
Upon  the  stern  stood  the  Celestial  Pilot ! 
Beatitude  seemed  written  in  his  face ! 

And  more  than  a hundred  spirits  sat  within. 
“ In  exitu  Israel  de  JEgypto  ! ” 

Thus  sang  they  all  together  in  one  voice, 
With  whatso  in  that  Psalm  is  after  written. 
Then  made  he  sign  of  holy  rood  upon  them, 
Whereat  all  cast  themselves  upon  the  shore, 
And  he  departed  swiftly  as  he  came. 


THE  TERRESTRIAL  PARADISE. 

FROM  DANTE.  PURGATORIO,  XXVIII. 


Longing  already  to  search  in  and  round 
rFhe  heavenly  forest,  dense  and  living-green, 
Which  tempered  to  the  eyes  the  new-born 
day, 

Withouten  more  delay  I left  the  bank, 
Crossing  the  level  country  slowly,  slowly, 
Over  the  soil,  that  everywhere  breathed  fra- 
grance. 

A gently-breathing  air,  that  no  mutation 


Had  in  itself,  smote  me  upon  the  forehead, 
No  heavier  blow,  than  of  a pleasant  breeze, 
Whereat  the  tremulous  branches  readily 
Did  all  of  them  bow  downward  towards  that 
side 

Where  its  First  shadow  casts  the  Holy  Moun- 
tain ; 

Yet  not  from  their  upright  direction  bent 
So  that  the  little  birds  upon  their  tops 


HENR  Y WADS  WOR TH  L ONGFELL O W. 


29 


Should  cease  the  practice  of  their  tuneful  art; 

But,  with  full-throated  joy,  the  hours  of  prime 
Singing  received  they  in  the  midst  of  foliage 
That  made  monotonous  burden  to  their 
rhymes, 

Even  as  from  branch  to  branch  it  gathering 
swells, 

Through  the  pine  forests  on  the  shore  of 
Chiassi, 

When  iEolus  unlooses  the  Sirocco. 

Already  my  slow  steps  had  led  me  on 
Into  the  ancient  wood  so  far,  that  I 
Could  see  no  more  the  place  where  I had 
entered. 


And  lo!  my  further  course  cut  off  a river, 
Which,  tow’rds  the  left  hand,  with  its  little 
waves, 

Bent  down  the  grass,  that  on  its  margin 
sprang. 

All  waters  that  on  earth  most  limpid  are, 
Would  seem  to  have  within  themselves  some 
mixture, 

Compared  with  that,  which  nothing  doth 
conceal, 

Although  it  moves  on  with  a brown,  brown 
current, 

Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Ray  of  the  sun  lets  in,  nor  of  the  moon. 


BEATRICE. 

FROM  DANTE.  PURGATORIO,  XXX.,  XXXI. 


Even  as  the  Blessed,  at  the  final  summons, 
Shall  rise  up  quickened,  each  one  from  his 
grave, 

Wearing  again  the  garments  of  the  flesh, 

So,  upon  that  celestial  chariot, 

A hundred  rose  ad  vocem  tanti  senis , 
Ministers  and  messengers  of  life  eternal. 
They  all  were  saying,  “Bentd ictus  qui  venis ,” 
And  scattering  flowers  above  and  round 
about, 

“Manilas  o date  lilia  plenis.” 

Oft  have  I seen,  at  the  approach  of  day, 

The  orient  sky  all  stained  with  roseate  hues, 
And  the  other  heaven  with  light  serene 
adorned, 

And  the  sun’s  face  uprising,  overshadowed, 

So  that,  by  temperate  influence  of  vapors, 
The  eye  sustained  his  aspect  for  long  while  ; 
Thus  in  the  bosom  of  a cloud  of  flowers, 
Which  from  those  hands  angelic  were  thrown 
up, 

And  down  descended  inside  and  without, 

A ith  crown  of  olive  o’er  a snow-white  veil, 
Appeared  a lady,  under  a green  mantle, 
Vested  in  colors  of  the  living  flame. 

Even  as  the  snow,  among  the  living  rafters 
Upon  the  back  of  Italy,  congeals, 

Blown  on  and  beaten  by  Sclavonian  winds, 


And  then,  dissolving,  filters  through  itself. 
Whene’er  the  land,  that  loses  shadow, 
breathes, 

Like  as  a taper  melts  before  a fire, 

Even  such  I was,  without  a sigh  or  tear, 
Before  the  song  of  those  who  chime  forever 
After  the  chiming  of  the  eternal  spheres ; 

But,  when  I heard  in  those  sweet  melodies 
Compassion  for  me,  more  than  had  they  said, 
“ Oh  wherefore,  lady,  dost  thou  thus  con- 
sume him  ? ” 

The  ice,  that  was  about  my  heart  congealed, 
To  air  and  water  changed,  and,  in  my  an- 
guish, 

Through  lips  and  eyes  came  gushing  from 
my  breast. 

Confusion  and  dismay,  together  mingled, 
Forced  such  a feeble  “ Yes ! ” out  of  my  mouth. 
To  understand  it  one  had  need  of  sight. 

Even  as  a cross-bow  breaks,  when  ’t  is  dis- 
charged, 

Too  tensely  drawn  the  bow-string  and  the 
bow, 

And  with  less  force  the  arrow  hits  the  mark ; 

So  I gave  way  beneath  this  heavy  burden. 
Gushing  forth  into  bitter  tears  and  sighs, 
And  the  voice,  fainting,  flagged  upon  its 
passage. 


30 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


SPRING. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  CHARLES  D’ORLEANS.  XV.  CENTURY. 


Gentle  Spring ! in  sunshine  clad, 

Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display  ! 

For  Winter  maketh  the  light  heart  sad, 

And  thou,  thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 
He  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy  train, 
The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind,  and 
the  rain  ; 

And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in  fear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  giveth  the  fields  and  the  trees,  so  old, 
Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow  ; 

And  the  rain,  it  raineth  so  fast  and  cold, 

We  must  cower  over  the  embers  low  ; 


And,  snugly  housed  from  the  wind  and  weather, 
Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 
But  the  storm  retires,  and  the  sky  grows  clear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 
Wrap  him  round  with  a mantle  of  cloud  ; 
But,  Heaven  be  praised,  thy  step  is  nigh ; 

Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud, 
And  the  earth  looks  bright,  and  Winter  surly, 
Who  has  toiled  for  naught  both  late  and 
early, 

Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 


THE  CHILD  ASLEEP. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  CLOTILDE  HE  SURVILLE. 


Sweet  babe  ! true  portrait  of  thy  father’s  face, 
Sleep  on  the  bosom  that  thy  lips  have 
pressed ! 

Sleep,  little  one ; and  closely,  gently  place 
Thy  drowsy  eyelid  on  thy  mother's  breast. 

Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 

Soft  sleep  shall  come,  that  cometli  not  to 
me ! 

I watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend  ; 

’T  is  sweet  to  watch  for  thee,  alone  for  thee ! 

His  arms  fall  down  ; Sleep  sits  upon  his  brow  ; 
His  eye  is  closed  ; he  sleeps,  nor  dreams  of 
harm. 


Wore  not  his  cheek  the  apple’s  ruddy  glow, 
Would  you  not  say  he  slept  on  Death’s  cold 
arm  ? 

Awake,  my  boy ! I tremble  with  affright ! 
Awake,  and  chase  this  fatal  thought ! Un- 
close 

Thine  eye  but  for  one  moment  on  the  light 1 
Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me  repose ! 

Sweet  error ! he  but  slept,  I breathe  again ; 
Come,  gentle  dreams,  the  hour  of  sleep  be- 
guile ! 

Oh,  when  shall  he,  for  whom  I sigh  in  vain, 
Beside  me  watch  to  see  thy  waking  smile? 


THE  GRAVE. 

FROM  THE  ANGLO-SAXON. 


For  thee  was  a house  built 
Ere  thou  wast  born, 

For  thee  was  a mould  meant 
Ere  thou  of  mother  earnest. 


But  it  is  not  made  ready, 
Nor  its  depth  measured, 
Nor  is  it  seen 
How  long  it  shall  be. 


HRNR  Y IV A DS IV  OR  Til  L ONGFEL  L 0 IV. 


Now  I bring  thee 
Where  thou  shalt  be ; 

Now  I shall  measure  thee, 
And  the  mould  afterwards. 

Thy  house  is  not 
Highly  timbered, 

It  is  unhigh  and  low ; 
When  thou  art  therein, 
The  heel-ways  are  low. 

The  side-ways  unhigh. 

The  roof  is  built 
Thy  breast  full  nigh, 

So  thou  shalt  in  mould 
Dwell  full  cold, 

Dimly  and  dark. 

Doorless  is  that  house, 
And  dark  it  is  within ; 


There  thou  art  fast  detained 
And  Death  hath  the  key. 
Loathsome  is  that  earth-house, 
And  grim  within  to  dwell. 

T1  lere  thou  shalt  dwell, 

And  worms  shall  divide  thee. 

Thus  thou  art  laid, 

And  leavest  thy  friends ; 

Thou  hast  no  friend, 

Who  will  come  to  thee, 

Who  will  ever  see 

IIow  that  house  pleaseth  thee ; 

Who  will  ever  open 

The  door  for  thee, 

And  descend  after  thee ; 

For  soon  thou  art  loathsome 
And  hateful  to  see. 


KING  CHRISTIAN. 

A NATIONAL  SONG  OF  DENMARK.  FROM  THE  DANISH  OF  JOHANNES  EVALD. 


King  Christian  stood  by  the  lofty  mast 
In  mist  and  smoke ; 

His  sword  was  hammering  so  fast. 

Through  Gothic  helm  and  brain  it  passed ; 
Then  sank  each  hostile  hulk  and  mast, 


In  mist  and  smoke. 

“ Fly  ! ” shouted  they,  “ fly,  he  who  can  ! 
Who  braves  of  Denmark’s  Christian 
The  stroke  ? ” 


32 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Nils  Juel  gave  heed  to  the  tempest’s  roar, 
Now  is  the  hour! 

He  hoisted  his  blood-red  flag  once  more, 

And  smote  upon  the  foe  full  sore, 

And  shouted  loud,  through  the  tempest’s  roar, 
“ Now  is  the  hour  ! ” 

“ Fly  ! ” shouted  they,  “ for  shelter  fly ! 

Of  Denmark’s  Juel  who  can  defy 
The  power  ? ” 

North  Sea ! a glimpse  of  Wessel  rent 
Thy  murky  sky  ! 

Then  champions  to  thine  arms  were  sent ; 
Terror  and  Death  glared  where  he  went ; 
From  the  waves  was  heard  a Avail,  that  rent 


Thy  murky  sky ! 

From  Denmark  thunders  Tordenskiol’, 
Let  each  to  Heaven  commend  his  soul, 
And  fly ! 

Path  of  the  Dane  to  fame  and  might ! 
Dark-rolling  wave ! 

Receive  thy  friend,  avIio,  scorning  flight, 
Goes  to  meet  danger  Avith  despite, 
Proudly  as  thou  the  tempest’s  might, 
Dark-rolling  wave ! 

And  amid  pleasures  and  alarms, 

And  Avar  and  victory,  be  thine  arms 
My  grave ! 


THE  HAPPIEST  LAND. 


FROM  THE  GERMAN. 


There  sat  one  day  in  quiet, 

By  an  alehouse  on  the  Rhine, 
Four  hale  and  hearty  felloAvs, 
And  drank  the  precious  Avine 


The  landlord's  daughter  filled  their  cups, 
Around  the  rustic  board ; 

Then  sat  they  all  so  calm  and  still, 

And  spake  not  one  rude  Avord.  # 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


33 


But,  when  the  maid  departed, 

A Swabian  raised  his  hand, 

And  cried,  all  hot  and  flushed  with  wine, 
“ Long  live  the  Swabian  land ! 

“ The  greatest  kingdom  upon  earth 
Cannot  with  that  compare ; 

With  all  the  stout  and  hardy  men 
And  the  nut-brown  maidens  there.” 

“Ha!”  cried  a Saxon,  lauchinsf, 

And  dashed  his  beard  with  wine; 

“ I had  rather  live  in  Lapland, 

Than  that  Swabian  land  of  thine ! 

“The  goodliest  land  on  all  this  earth, 

It  is  the  Saxon  land ! 


There  have  I as  many  maidens 
As  fingers  on  this  hand ! ” 

“ Hold  your  tongues ! both  Swabian  and 
Saxon ! ” 

.V  bold  Bohemian  cries ; 

“If  there’s  a heaven  upon  this  earth, 

In  Bohemia  it  lies. 

“There  the  tailor  blows  the  flute, 

And  the  cobbler  blows  the  horn, 

And  the  miner  blows  the  bugle, 

Over  mountain  gorge  and  bourn.” 

And  then  the  landlord’s  daughter 
Up  to  heaven  raised  her  hand, 

And  said,  “Ye  may  no  more  contend, — 
There  lies  the  happiest  land  ! ” 


THE  WAVE. 


FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  TIEDGE. 


“Whither,  thou  turbid  wave? 
Whither,  with  so  much  haste. 
As  if  a thief  wert  thou?” 

“I  am  the  Wave  of  Life, 
Stained  with  my  margin’s  dust ; 


From  the  struggle  and  the  strife 
Of  the  narrow  stream  I fly 
To  the  Sea’s  immensity, 
do  wash  from  me  the  slime 
Of  the  muddy  banks  of  Time.” 


THE  DEAD. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  ST'OCKMANN. 


How  they  so  softly  rest, 

All  they  the  holy  ones. 

Unto  whose  dwelling-place 
Now  doth  my  soul  draw  near ! 
5 


How  they  so  softly  rest. 
All  in  their  silent  graves. 
Deep  to  corruption 
Slowly  down-sinking ! 


34 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


And  they  no  longer  weep, 
Here,  where  complaint  is  still  1 
And  they  no  longer  feel, 

Here,  where  all  gladness  flies ! 


And,  by  the  cypresses 
Softly  o'ershadowed, 

Until  the  Angel 

Calls  them,  they  slumber ! 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  SHIP. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MULLER. 


“The  rivers  rush  into  the  sea, 

By  castle  and  town  they  go  ; 

The  winds  behind  them  merrily 
Their  noisy  trumpets  blow. 

“ The  clouds  are  passing  far  and  high, 

We  little  birds  in  them  play ; 

And  everything,  that  can  sing  and  fly, 

Goes  with  us,  and  far  away. 

“ I greet  thee,  bonny  boat ! Whither,  or  whence, 
With  thy  fluttering  golden  band  ? ” — 

“ I greet  thee,  little  bird ! To  the  wide  sea 
I haste  from  the  narrow  land. 

“Full  and  swollen  is  every  sail; 

I see  no  longer  a hill, 

I have  trusted  all  to  the  sounding  gale, 

And  it  will  not  let  me  stand  still. 

“ And  wilt  thou,  little  bird,  go  with  us  ? 
Thou  mayest  stand  on  the  mainmast  tall. 


For  full  to  sinking  is  my  house 
With  merry  companions  all.”  — 

“ I need  not  and  seek  not  company, 

Bonny  boat,  I can  sing  all  alone ; 

For  the  mainmast  tall  too  heavy  am  I, 
Bonny  boat,  I have  wings  of  my  own. 

“High  over  the  sails,  high  over  the  mast, 
Who  shall  gainsay  these  joys? 

When  thy  merry  companions  are  still,  at  last, 
Thou  shaft  hear  the  sound  of  my  voice. 

“ Who  neither  may  rest,  nor  listen  may, 

God  bless  them  every  one  ! 

I dart  away,  in  the  bright  blue  day, 

And  the  golden  fields  of  the  sun. 

“ Thus  do  I sing  my  weary  song, 

Wherever  the  four  winds  blow ; 

And  this  same  song,  my  whole  life  long, 
Neither  Poet  nor  Printer  may  know.” 


WHITHER  ? 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MULLER. 


I heard  a brooklet  gushing 
From  its  rocky  fountain  near, 
Down  into  the  valley  rushing. 
So  fresh  and  wondrous  clear. 

I know  not  what  came  o’er  me, 
Nor  who  the  counsel  gave  ; 
But  I must  hasten  downward, 
All  with  my  pilgrim-stave ; 


Downward,  and  ever  farther, 

And  ever  the  brook  beside ; 
And  ever  fresher  murmured, 

And  ever  clearer,  the  tide. 

Is  this  the  way  I was  going? 

Whither,  O brooklet,  say ! 

Thou  hast,  with  thy  soft  murmur, 
Murmured  my  senses  away. 


I/ENR  Y WA  DS  WORTH  L ON C FELL  0 W. 


35 


What  do  I say  of  a murmur? 

That  can  no  murmur  be  ; 

'T  is  the  water-nymphs,  that  are  singing 
Their  roundelays  under  me. 


Let  them  sing,  my  friend,  let  them  murmur, 
And  wander -merrily  near; 

The  wheels  of  a mill  are  going 
In  every  brooklet  clear. 


BEWARE 


! 


FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

Beware ! Beware ! 
Trust  her  not, 

She  is  fooling  thee  ! 


I know  a maiden  fair  to  see, 

Take  care ! 

She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be, 
Beware ! Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 

She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  and  brown, 
Take  care ! 

She  gives  a side-glance  and  looks  down, 
Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust  her  not, 

She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

And  she  has  hair  of  a golden  hue, 

Take  care ! 

And  what  she  says,  it  is  not  true, 


She  has  a bosom  as  white  as  snow, 

Take  care ! 

She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show, 
Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust  her  not. 

She  is  fooling  thee ! 

She  gives  thee  a garland  woven  fair, 
Take  care ! 

It  is  a fool's-cap  for  thee  to  wear, 
Beware ! Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 

She  is  fooling  thee  ! 


36 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


SONG  OF  THE  BELL. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

Say ! how  canst  thou  mourn  ? 
How  canst  thou  rejoice  ? 

Thou  art  hut  metal  dull ! 
And  yet  all  our  sorrowings, 
And  all  our  rejoicings, 

Thou  dost  feel  them  all ! 


Bell  ! thou  soundest  merrily, 
When  the  bridal  party 
To  the  church  doth  hie ! 

Bell ! thou  soundest  solemnly, 
When,  on  Sabbath  morning, 
Fields  deserted  lie  ! 

Bell ! thou  soundest  merrily  ; 

Tellest  thou  at  evening, 

© 

Bed-time  draweth  nigh ! 

Bell ! thou  soundest  mournfully, 
Tellest  thou  the  bitter 
Parting  hath  gone  by  ! 


God  hath  wonders  many, 
Which  we  cannot  fathom, 
Placed  within  thy  form ! 
When  the  heart  is  sinking, 
Thou  alone  canst  raise  it, 
Trembling  in  the  storm ! 


THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA. 


FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  I'll  LAND. 


“ Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 
That  Castle  by  the  Sea? 

Golden  and  red  above  it 
The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

“ And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 
To  the  mirrored  wave  below ; 
Anti  fain  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening’s  crimson  glow.” 


“ And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 
The  King  and  his  royal  bride? 

And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles? 
And  the  golden  crown  of  pride? 

“ Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 

A beauteous  maiden  there  ? 
Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 

Beaming  with  golden  hair  ? ” 


“ Well  have  I seen  that  castle, 
That  Castle  by  the  Sea, 

And  the  moon  above  it  standing. 
And  the  mist  rise  solemnly.” 


“ Well  saw  I the  ancient  parents, 

Without  the  crown  of  pride ; 

They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe, 
No  maiden  was  by  their  side!” 


The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean. 

Had  they  a merry  chime? 

Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers 
The  harp  and  the  minstrel’s  rhyme  ? ” 

• The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean. 

They  rested  quietly, 

But  I heard  on  the  gale  a sound  of  wail, 
And  tears  came  to  mine  eye.” 


HKNR  Y WA DS  WORTH  L ON G FELL 0 W. 


‘61 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 


’T  WAS  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness, 
When  woods  and  fields  put  oft  all  sadness. 

Thus  began  the  King  and  spake : 

“ So  from  the  halls 
Of  ancient  Hofburg’s  walls, 

A luxuriant  Spring  shall  break.” 

Drums  and  trumpets  echo  loudly, 

Wave  the  crimson  banners  proudly. 

From  balcony  the  King  looked  on; 


In  the  play  of  spears, 

Fell  all  the  cavaliers, 

Before  the  monarch's  stalwart  son. 

To  the  barrier  of  the  fight 
Rode  at  last  a sable  Knight. 

“ Sir  Knight ! your  name  and  scutcheon,  say ! ” 
“ Should  I speak  it  here, 

Ye  would  stand  aghast  with  fear ; 

I am  a Prince  of  mighty  sway ! ” 


When  he  rode  into  the  lists. 

The  arch  of  heaven  grew  black  with  mists, 
And  the  castle  gan  to  rock ; 

At  the  first  blow, 

Fell  the  youth  from  saddle-bow, 

Hardly  rises  from  the  shock. 

Pipe  and  viol  call  the  dances, 

Torch-light  through  the  high  halls  glances  ; 
Waves  a mighty  shadow  in; 


• With  manner  bland 

Doth  ask  the  maiden’s  hand, 

Doth  with  her  the  dance  begin. 

Danced  in  sable  iron  sark. 

Danced  a measure  weird  and  dark, 
Coldly  clasped  her  limbs  around  ; 
From  breast  and  hair 
Down  fall  from  her  the  fair 

Flowerets,  faded,  to  the  ground. 


38 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


To  the  sumptuous  banquet  came 
Every  Knight  and  every  Dame ; 

’Twixt  son  and  daughter  all  distraught, 
With  mournful  mind 
The  ancient  King  reclined, 

Gazed  at  them  in  silent  thought. 

Pale  the  children  both  did  look, 

But  the  guest  a beaker  took  : 

“ Golden  wine  will  make  you  whole  ! ” 
The  children  drank. 

Gave  many  a courteous  thank : 

“ Oh,  that  draught  was  very  cool ! ” 


Each  the  father’s  breast  embraces, 
Son  and  daughter ; and  their  faces 
Colorless  grow  utterly ; 

Whichever  way 

Looks  the  fear-struck  father  gray, 

He  beholds  his  children  die. 

“Woe!  the  blessed  children  both 
Takest  thou  in  the  joy  of  youth  ; 

Take  me,  too,  the  joyless  father  ! ” 
Spake  the  grim  Guest, 

From  his  hollow,  cavernous  breast: 

“ Roses  in  the  spring  I gather  ! ” 


SONG  OF  THE  SILENT  LAND. 


FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  SALIS. 


Into  the  Silent  Land ! 

Ah!  who  shall  lead  us  thither? 

Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather. 
And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 
Who  leads  us  with  a gentle  hand 
Thither,  oh,  thither, 

Into  the  Silent  Land? 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 
Of  all  perfection ! Tender  morning-visions 
Of  beauteous  souls  ! The  Future’s  pledge  and 
band ! 


Who  in  Life’s  battle  firm  doth  stand, 
Shall  bear  Hope’s  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land ! 

O Land!  O Land! 

For  all  the  broken-hearted 
The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted, 
Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth 
stand 

To  lead  us  with  a gentle  hand 
To  the  land  of  the  great  Departed, 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 


L’ENVOI. 


Ye  voices,  that  arose 
After  the  Evening’s  close, 

And  whispered  to  my  restless  heart  repose ! 

Go,  breathe  it  in  the  ear 
Of  all  who  doubt  and  fear, 

And  say  to  them,  “ Be  of  good  cheer ! ” 

Ye  sounds,  so  low  and  calm, 

That  in  the  groves  of  balm 
Seemed  to  me  like  an  angel’s  psalm ! 


Go,  mingle  yet  once  more 

With  the  perpetual  roar 

Of  the  pine  forest,  dark  and  hoar  ! 

Tongues  of  the  dead,  not  lost, 

But  speaking  from  death’s  frost, 

Like  fiery  tongues  at  Pentecost ! 

Glimmer,  as  funeral  lamps, 

Amid  the  chills  and  damps 

Of  the  vast  plain  where  Death  encamps ! 


aktist:  e.  a abbey. 


“ I wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid.” 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor 


wm 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR. 


“ Speak  ! speak ! tliou  fearful  guest ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest. 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 

Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 

But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me?” 


Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyi 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise. 

As  when  the  Northern  skies 
Gleam  in  December  ; 

And,  like  the  water’s  flow 
Under  December’s  snow. 

Came  a dull  voice  of  woe 
From  the  heart’s  chamber. 


42 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


“ I was  a Viking  old  ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee! 

Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 

Else  dread  a dead  man’s  curse ; 
For  this  1 sought  thee. 

“Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 

By  the  wild  Baltic’s  strand, 

I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon ; 

And,  with  ray  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 
Trembled  to  walk  on. 


“ Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  1 the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 
Fled  like  a shadow ; 

Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf’s  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 
Sang  from  the  meadow. 

“ But  when  I older  grew, 
Joining  a corsair’s  crew, 

O’er  the  dark  sea  I Hew 
With  the  marauders. 

Wild  was  the  life  we  led ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 


Many  a wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 
Set  the  cocks  crowing. 

As  we  the  Berserk’s  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale. 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 
Filled  to  o’erflowing. 


“ Once  as  I told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 

Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 
Burning  yet  tender ; 

And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine. 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 
Fell  their  soft  sjdendor. 


IIKNR  Y WADS  WOR  Til  L ON G FELL  0 W. 


“ I wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid. 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 

And  in  the  forest’s  shade 
Our  vows  were  plighted. 

Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 

Like  birds  within  their  nest 
By  the  hawk  frighted. 

“ Bright  in  her  father’s  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 

Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 
Chanting  his  glory ; 

When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I asked  his  daughter’s  hand, 

Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 
To  hear  my  story. 

“ While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed. 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 
The  sea-foam  brightly, 

So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 

Out  of  those  lips  unshorn. 

From  the  deep  drinking-horn 
Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

“ She  was  a Prince’s  child, 

I but  a Viking  wild, 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 
I was  discarded ! 

Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew’s  flight, 

Why  did  they  leave  that  night 
Her  nest  unguarded? 

“ Scarce  had  I put  to  sea, 

Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 

Fairest  of  all  was  she 
Among  the  Norsemen ! 

When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 

Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

“ Then  launched  they  to  the  blast. 
Bent  like  a reed  each  mast, 

Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us ; 


And  with  a sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 

So  that  our  foe  we  saw 
Laugh  as  lie  hailed  us. 

“And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 

‘ Death  ! ’ was  the  helmsman’s  hail, 
‘ Death  without  quarter ! ’ 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 
Through  the  black  water ! 

“ As  with  his  wings  aslant, 

Sails  the  fierce  cormorant. 

Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 

So  toward  the  open  main, 

Beating  to  sea  again, 

Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I the  maiden. 

“ Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o’er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 
Stretching  to  leeward ; 

There  for  my  lady’s  bower 
Built  I the  lofty  tower, 

Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  seaward. 

“ There  lived  we  many  years ; 

Time  dried  the  maiden’s  tears ; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a mother; 

Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies; 

Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 
On  such  another ! 

“ Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 

Still  as  a stagnant  fen ! 

Hateful  to  me  were  men. 

The  sunlight  hateful ! 

In  the  vast  forest  here. 

Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 

Fell  I upon  my  spear. 

Oh,  death  was  grateful  ! 


44 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 

Up  to  its  native  stars 
My  soul  ascended ! 


There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior’s  soul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland!  skoal!” 
Thus  the  tale  ended. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS. 


It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea ; 

And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 
To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 

Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 

And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 
The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sailor, 

Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 

“ I pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 

For  I fear  a hurricane. 

“ Last  night,  the  moon  had  a golden  ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see ! ” 

The  skipper,  he  blew  a whiff  from  his  pipe. 
And  a scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A gale  from  the  Northeast, 

The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 
The  vessel  in  its  strength ; 

She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a frighted  steed. 
Then  leaped  her  cable’s  length. 


“Come  hither!  come  hither!  my  little  daughter, 
And  do  not  tremble  so ; 

For  I can  weather  the  roughest  gale 
That  ever  wind  did  blow.” 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman’s  coat 
Against  the  stinging  blast ; 

He  cut  a rope  from  a broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

“ O father  ! I hear  the  churcli-bells  ring, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be?” 

“ ’T  is  a fo^-bell  on  a rock-bound  coast  ! ” — 
And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

“ O father ! I hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ? ” 

“ Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 
In  such  an  angry  sea ! ” 

“ O father ! I see  a gleaming  light, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ? ” 

But  the  father  answered  never  a word, 

A frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark. 

With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies. 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

4' hen  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 
That  saved  she  might  be  ; 

And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave, 
On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 


HENR  Y W A DS  WOR  TH  L ONGFEL  L O W. 


45 


And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 
Like  a sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Tow'rds  the  reef  of  Norman’s  Woe. 


And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 
A sound  came  from  the  land ; 

It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 
On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 


The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows. 
She  drifted  a dreary  wreck, 

And  a whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 
Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 
Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 

But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 
Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board; 

Like  a vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 

Ho  ! ho  ! the  breakers  roared ! 


At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A fisherman  stood  aghast, 

To  see  the  form  of  a maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes ; 

And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed, 
On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow ! 

Christ  save  us  all  from  a death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman’s  Woe! 


46 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 


Of  Edenhall,  the  youthful  Lord 
Bids  sound  the  festal  trumpet’s  call ; 

He  rises  at  the  banquet  board, 

And  cries,  ’mid  the  drunken  revellers  all, 

“ Now  bring  me  the  Luck  of  Edenhall ! " 

The  butler  hears  the  words  with  pain. 

The  house’s  oldest  seneschal, 

Takes  slow  from  its  silken  cloth  again 
The  drinking-glass  of  crystal  tall ; 

They  call  it  The  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  said  the  Lord : “ This  glass  to  praise. 
Fill  with  red  wine  from  Portugal ! ” 

The  graybeard  with  trembling  hand  obeys ; 
A purple  light  shines  over  all, 

It  beams  from  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  speaks  the  Lord,  and  waves  it  light: 
“ This  glass  of  flashing  crystal  tall 
Gave  to  my  sires  the  Fountain-Sprite; 

She  wrote  in  it,  If  this  glass  cloth  fall , 
Farewell  then , 0 Luck  of  Edenhall ! 

“ ’T  was  right  a goblet  the  Fate  should  be 
Of  the  joyous  race  of  Edenhall ! 

Deep  draughts  drink  we  right  willingly ; 
And  willingly  ring,  with  merry  call, 

Kling ! klang ! to  the  Luck  of  Edenhall ! ” 

First  rings  it  deep,  and  full,  and  mild, 

Like  to  the  song  of  a nightingale ; 

Then  like  the  roar  of  a torrent  wild; 


Then  mutters  at  last  like  the  thunder’s  fall, 
The  glorious  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

“ For  its  keeper  takes  a race  of  might, 

The  fragile  goblet  of  crystal  tall ; 

It  has  lasted  longer  than  is  right; 

Kling!  klang!  — with  a harder  blow  than 
all 

Will  I try  the  Luck  of  Edenhall ! ” 

As  the  goblet  ringing  flies  apart, 

Suddenly  cracks  the  vaulted  hall ; 

And  through  the  rift,  the  wild  flames  start ; 
The  guests  in  dust  are  scattered,  all, 

With  the  breaking  Luck  of  Edenhall ! 

In  storms  the  foe,  with  fire  and  sword ; 

He  in  the  night  had  scaled  the  wall, 

Slain  by  the  sword  lies  the  youthful  Lord, 
But  holds  in  his  hand  the  crystal  tall, 

The  shattered  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

On  the  morrow  the  butler  gropes  alone, 
The  graybeard  in  the  desert  hall, 

He  seeks  his  Lord’s  burnt  skeleton, 

He  seeks  in  the  dismal  ruin’s  fall 
The  shards  of  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

“ The  stone  wall,”  saith  he,  “ doth  fall  aside, 
Down  must  the  stately  columns  fall  ; 

Glass  is  this  earth’s  Luck  and  Pride  ; 

In  atoms  shall  fall  this  earthly  ball 
( )ne  day  like  the  Luck  of  Edenhall ! ” 


THE  ELECTED  KNIGHT. 

FROM  THE  DANISH. 


Sir  Oluf  he  ridetli  over  the  plain, 

Full  seven  miles  broad  and  seven  miles  wide, 
But  never,  ah  never  can  meet  with  the  man 
A tilt  with  him  dare  ride. 

He  saw  under  the  hillside 

A Knight  full  well  equipped  ; 


His  steed  was  black,  his  helm  was  barred; 
He  was  riding  at  full  speed. 

He  wore  upon  his  spurs 
Twelve  little  golden  birds ; 

Anon  he  spurred  his  steed  with  a clang. 
And  there  sat  all  the  birds  and  sang. 


IIENR  T IVA  DS  IVOR  TII  L ONGFELL  0 W 


47 


Ho  wore  upon  his  mail 
Twelve  little  golden  wheels; 

Anon  in  eddies  the  wild  wind  blew, 

And  round  and  round  the  wheels  they  Hew. 

He  wore  before  his  breast 

A lance  that  was  poised  in  rest ; 

And  it  was  sharper  than  diamond-stone, 

It  made  Sir  Oluf’s  heart  to  groan. 

He  wore  upon  his  helm 
A wreath  of  ruddy  gold  ; 

And  that  gave  him  the  Maidens  Three, 

The  youngest  was  fair  to  behold. 

Sir  Glut'  questioned  the  Knight  eftsoon 
If  he  were  come  from  heaven  down  ; 

“Art  thou  Christ  of  Heaven,”  quoth  he, 

“ So  will  I yield  me  unto  thee.” 

“ I am  not  Christ  the  Great, 

Thou  shaft  not  yield  thee  yet; 


I am  an  Unknown  Knight, 

Three  modest  Maidens  have  me  bedight.’ 

“ Art  thou  a Knight  elected, 

And  have  three  Maidens  thee  bedight ; 

So  shaft  thou  ride  a tilt  this  day, 

For  all  the  Maidens’  honor!” 

The  first  tilt  they  together  rode 
They  put  their  steeds  to  the  test ; 

The  second  tilt  they  together  rode, 

They  proved  their  manhood  best. 

The  third  tilt  they  together  rode, 

Neither  of  them  would  yield ; 

The  fourth  tilt  they  together  rode, 

They  both  fell  on  the  field. 

Now  lie  the  lords  upon  the  plain, 

And  their  blood  runs  unto  death  ; 

Now  sit  the  Maidens  in  the  high  tower, 
The  youngest  sorrows  till  death. 


48 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


FROM  THE  SWEDISH  OF  BISHOP  TEGNEK. 


Pentecost,  day  of  rejoicing,  had  come.  The  church  of  the  village 
Gleaming  stood  in  the  morning’s  sheen.  On  the  spire  of  the  belfry, 
Decked  with  a brazen  cock,  the  friendly  flames  of  the  Spring-sun 
Glanced  like  the  tongues  of  fire,  beheld  by  Apostles  aforetime. 

Clear  was  the  heaven  and  blue,  and  May,  with  her  cap  crowned  with  roses, 
Stood  in  her  holiday  dress  in  the  fields,  and  the  wind  and  the  brooklet 
Murmured  gladness  and  peace,  God’s-peace ! with  lips  rosy-tinted 
Whispered  the  race  of  the  flowers,  and  merry  on  balancing  branches 
Birds  were  singing  their  carol,  a jubilant  hymn  to  the  Highest. 

Swept  and  clean  was  the  churchyard.  Adorned  like  a leaf-woven  arbor 
Stood  its  old-fashioned  gate  ; and  within  upon  each  cross  of  iron 
Hung  was  a fragrant  garland,  new  twined  by  the  hands  of  affection. 

Even  the  dial,  that  stood  on  a mound  among  the  departed, 

(There  full  a hundred  years  had  it  stood,)  was  embellished  with  blossoms. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


49 


Like  to  the  patriarch  hoary,  the  sage  of  his  kith  and  the  hamlet, 

Who  on  his  birthday  is  crowned  by  children  and  children’s  children, 

So  stood  the  ancient  prophet,  and  mute  with  his  pencil  of  iron 
Marked  on  the  tablet  of  stone,  and  measured  the  time  and  its  changes, 

While  all  around  at  his  feet,  an  eternity  slumbered  in  quiet. 

Also  the  church  within  was  adorned,  for  this  was  the  season 
When  the  young,  their  parents’  hope,  and  the  loved-ones  of  heaven, 

Should  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  renew  the  vows  of  their  baptism. 

Therefore  each  nook  and  corner  was  swept  and  cleaned,  and  the  dust  was 
Blown  from  the  walls  and  ceiling,  and  from  the  oil-painted  benches. 

There  stood  the  church  like  a garden ; the  Feast  of  the  Leafy  Pavilions 
Saw  we  in  living  presentment.  From  noble  arms  on  the  church  wall 
Grew  forth  a cluster  of  leaves,  and  the  preacher's  pulpit  of  oak-wood 
Budded  once  more  anew,  as  aforetime  the  rod  before  Aaron. 

Wreathed  thereon  was  the  Bible  with  leaves,  and  the  dove,  washed  with  silver, 
Under  its  canopy  fastened,  had  on  it  a necklace  of  wind-flowers. 

But  in  front  of  the  choir,  round  the  altar-piece  painted  by  Horberg, 

Crept  a garland  gigantic ; and  bright-curling  tresses  of  angels 
Peeped,  like  the  sun  from  a cloud,  from  out  of  the  shadowy  leaf-work. 

Likewise  the  lustre  of  brass,  new-polished,  blinked  from  the  ceiling, 

And  for  lights  there  were  lilies  of  Pentecost  set  in  the  sockets. 

Loud  rang  the  bells  already ; the  thronging  crowd  was  assembled 
Far  from  valleys  and  hills,  to  list  to  the  holy  preaching. 

Hark ! then  roll  forth  at  once  the  mighty  tones  of  the  organ, 

Hover  like  voices  from  God,  aloft  like  invisible  spirits. 

Like  as  Elias  in  heaven,  when  he  cast  from  off  him  his  mantle, 

So  cast  off  the  soul  its  garments  of  earth ; and  with  one  voice 
Chimed  in  the  congregation,  and  sang  an  anthem  immortal 
Of  the  sublime  Wallin,  of  David’s  harp  in  the  North-land 
Tuned  to  the  choral  of  Luther ; the  song  on  its  mighty  pinions 
Took  every  living  soul,  and  lifted  it  gently  to  heaven, 

And  each  face  did  shine  like  the  Holy  One’s  face  upon  Tabor. 

Lo  ! there  entered  then  into  the  church  the  Reverend  Teacher. 

Father  he  hight  and  he  was  in  the  parish  ; a Christianly  plainness 
Clothed  from  his  head  to  his  feet  the  old  man  of  seventy  winters. 

Friendly  was  he  to  behold,  and  glad  as  the  heralding  angel 

Walked  he  among  the  crowds,  but  still  a contemplative  grandeur 

Lay  on  his  forehead  as  clear  as  on  moss-covered  gravestone  a sunbeam. 

As  in  his  inspiration  (an  evening  twilight  that  faintly 
Gleams  in  the  human  soul,  even  now,  from  the  day  of  creation) 

Th'  Artist,  the  friend  of  heaven,  imagines  Saint  John  when  in  Patinos, 

Gray,  with  his  eyes  uplifted  to  heaven,  so  seemed  then  the  old  man  ; 

Such  was  the  glance  of  his  eye,  and  such  were  his  tresses  of  silver. 

All  the  congregation  arose  in  the  pews  that  were  numbered. 

But  with  a cordial  look,  to  the  right  and  the  left  hand,  the  old  man 
Nodding  all  hail  and  peace,  disappeared  in  the  innermost  chancel. 

Simply  and  solemnly  now  proceeded  the  Christian  service. 

Singing  and  prayer,  and  at  last  an  ardent  discourse  from  the  old  man.  ' 

7 


50 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Many  a moving  word  and  warning,  that  out  of  the  heart  came, 

Fell  like  the  dew  of  the  morning,  like  manna  on  those  in  the  desert. 

Then,  when  all  was  finished,  the  Teacher  reentered  the  chancel, 

Followed  therein  by  the  young.  The  boys  on  the  right  had  their  places, 
Delicate  figures,  with  close-curling  hair  and  cheeks  rosy-blooming. 

But  on  the  left  of  these  there  stood  the  tremulous  lilies, 

Tinged  with  the  blushing  light  of  the  dawn,  the  diffident  maidens,  — 
Folding  their  hands  in  prayer,  and  their  eyes  cast  down  on  the  pavement. 
Now  came,  with  question  and  answer,  the  catechism.  In  the  beginning 
Answered  the  children  with  troubled  and  faltering  voice,  but  the  old  man's 
Glances  of  kindness  encouraged  them  soon,  and  the  doctrines  eternal 
Flowed,  like  the  waters  of  fountains,  so  clear  from  lips  unpolluted. 

Each  time  the  answer  was  closed,  and  as  oft  as  they  named  the  Redeemer, 
Lowly  louted  the  boys,  and  lowly  the  maidens  all  courtesied. 

Friendly  the  Teacher  stood,  like  an  angel  of  light  there  among  them, 

And  to  the  children  explained  the  holy,  the  highest,  in  few  words, 
Thorough,  yet  simple  and  clear,  for  sublimity  always  is  simple, 

Both  in  sermon  and  song,  a child  can  seize  on  its  meaning. 

E'en  as  the  green-growing  bud  unfolds  when  Springtide  approaches, 

Leaf  by  leaf  puts  forth,  and  warmed,  by  the  radiant  sunshine, 

Blushes  with  purple  and  gold,  till  at  last  the  perfected  blossom 
Opens  its  odorous  chalice,  and  rocks  with  its  crown  in  the  breezes, 

So  was  unfolded  here  the  Christian  lore  of  salvation. 

Line  by  line  from  the  soul  of  childhood.  The  fathers  and  mothers 
Stood  behind  them  in  tears,  and  were  glad  at  the  well-worded  answer. 

Now  went  the  old  man  up  to  the  altar;  — and  straightway  transfigured 
(So  did  it  seem  unto  me)  was  then  the  affectionate  Teacher. 


HE  NR  Y )VA  1)S  WOR  Til  L ONGFEL  L O W. 


Like  tlie  Lord’s  Prophet  sublime,  and  awful  as  Death  and  as  Judgment 
Stood  he,  the  God-commissioned,  the  soul-searcher,  earthward  descending. 
Glances,  sharp  as  a sword,  into  hearts  that  to  him  were  transparent 
Shot  he ; his  voice  was  deep,  was  low  like  the  thunder  afar  off. 

So  on  a sudden  transfigured  he  stood  there,  he  spake  and  he  questioned. 

“This  is  the  faith  of  the  Fathers,  the  faith  the  Apostles  delivered, 

This  is  moreover  the  faith  whereunto  I baptized  you,  while  still  ye 
Lay  on  your  mothers’  breasts,  and  nearer  the  portals  of  heaven. 

Slumbering  received  you  then  the  Holy  Church  in  its  bosom  ; 

Wakened  from  sleep  are  ye  now,  and  the  light  in  its  radiant-  splendor 
Downward  rains  from  the  heaven ; — to-day  on  the  threshold  of  childhood 
Kindly  she  frees  you  again,  to  examine  and  make  your  election, 

For  she  knows  naught  of  compulsion,  and  only  conviction  desireth. 

This  is  the  hour  of  your  trial,  the  turning-point  of  existence, 

Seed  for  the  coming  days ; without  revocation  departeth 
Now  from  your  lips  the  confession ; Bethink  ye,  before  ye  make  answer ! 
Think  not,  oh  think  not  with  guile  to  deceive  the  questioning  Teacher. 
Sharp  is  his  eye  to-day,  and  a curse  ever  rests  upon  falsehood. 

Enter  not  with  a lie  on  Life’s  journey ; the  multitude  hears  you, 

Brothers  and  sisters  and  parents,  what  dear  upon  earth  is  and  holy 
Standeth  before  your  sight  as  a witness ; the  Judge  everlasting 
Looks  from  the  sun  down  upon  you,  and  angels  in  waiting  beside  him 
Grave  your  confession  in  letters  of  fire  upon  tablets  eternal. 

Thus,  then,  — believe  ye  in  God,  in  the  Father  who  this  world  created? 
Him  who  redeemed  it,  the  .Son,  and  the  Spirit  where  both  are  united? 

Will  ye  promise  me  here,  (a  holy  promise  !)  to  cherish 

God  more  than  all  things  earthly,  and  every  man  as  a brother  ? 

Will  ye  promise  me  here,  to  confirm  your  faith  by  your  living, 

Th’  heavenly  faith  of  affection  ! to  hope,  to  forgive,  and  to  suffer, 

Be  what  it  may  your  condition,  and  walk  before  God  in  uprightness? 

Will  ye  promise  me  this  before  God  and  man?”  — With  a clear  voice 
Answered  the  young  men  Yes!  and  Yes!  with  lips  softly-breathing 
Answered  the  maidens  eke.  Then  dissolved  from  the  brow  of  the  Teacher 
Clouds  with  the  lightnings  therein,  and  he  spake  in  accents  more  gentle. 

Soft  as  the  evening’s  breath,  as  harps  by  Babylon's  rivers. 

“ Hail,  then,  hail  to  you  all ! To  the  heirdom  of  heaven  be  ye  welcome  ! 
( hildren  no  more  from  this  day,  but  by  covenant  brothers  and  sisters ! 

^et,  for  what  reason  not  children  ? Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 
Here  upon  earth  an  assemblage  of  children,  in  heaven  one  Father, 

Ruling  them  all  as  his  household,  — forgiving  in  turn  and  chastising, 

That  is  of  human  life  a picture,  as  Scripture  has  taught  us. 

Blest  are  the  pure  before  God ! Upon  purity  and  upon  virtue 
Resteth  the  Christian  Faith  ; she  herself  from  on  high  is  descended. 

Strong  as  a man  and  pure  as  a child,  is  the  sum  of  the  doctrine, 

Which  the  Divine  One  taught,  and  suffered  and  died  on  the  cross  for. 

Oh,  as  ye  wander  this  day  from  childhood’s  sacred  asylum 
Downward,  and  ever  downward,  and  deeper  in  Age's  chill  valley, 

Oh,  how  soon  will  ye  come,  — too  soon! — and  long  to  turn  backward 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Up  to  its  hill-tops  again,  to  the  sun-illumined,  where  Judgment 
Stood  like  a father  before  you,  and  Pardon,  clad  like  a 'mother, 

Gave  you  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  the  loving  heart  was  forgiven, 

Life  was  a play  and  your  hands  grasped  after  the  roses  of  heaven ! 

Seventy  years  have  I lived  already  ; the  Father  eternal 

Gave  me  gladness  and  care  ; but  the  loveliest  hours  of  existence, 

When  I have  steadfastly  gazed  in  their  eyes,  I have  instantly  known  them, 
Known  them  all  again ; — they  were  my  childhood’s  acquaintance. 

Therefore  take  from  henceforth,  as  guides  in  the  paths  of  existence, 

Prayer,  with  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  and  Innocence,  bride  of  man’s  childhood. 
Innocence,  child  beloved,  is  a guest  from  the  world  of  the  blessed, 

Beautiful,  and  in  her  hand  a lily ; on  life’s  roaring  billows 

Swings  she  in  safety,  she  heedetli  them  not,  in  the  ship  she  is  sleeping. 

Calmly  she  gazes  around  in  the  turmoil  of  men  ; in  the  desert 
Angels  descend  and  minister  unto  her  ; she  herself  knoweth 
Naught  of  her  glorious  attendance ; but  follows  faithful  and  humble. 

Follows  so  long  as  she  may  her  friend ; oh  do  not  reject  her, 

For  she  cometh  from  God  and  she  holdeth  the  keys  of  the  heavens.  — 

Prayer  is  Innocence’  friend  ; and  willingly  flieth  incessant 
Twixt  the  earth  and  the  sky,  the  carrier-pigeon  of  heaven. 

Son  of  Eternity,  fettered  in  Time,  and  an  exile,  the  Spirit 

Tugs  at  his  chains  evermore,  and  struggles  like  flame  ever  upward. 

Still  he  recalls  with  emotion  his  Father’s  manifold  mansions, 

Thinks  of  the  land  of  his  fathers,  where  blossomed  more  freshly  the  flowerets, 
Shone  a more  beautiful  sun,  and  he  played  with  the  winged  angels. 

Then  grows  the  earth  too  narrow,  too  close;  and  homesick  for  heaven 
Longs  the  wanderer  again  ; and  the  Spirit’s  longings  are  worship ; 

Worship  is  called  his  most  beautiful  hour,  and  its  tongue  is  entreaty. 

Ah  ! when  the  infinite  burden  of  life  descendeth  upon  us, 

Crushes  to  earth  our  hope,  and,  under  the  earth,  in  the  graveyard, 

Then  it  is  good  to  pray  unto  God  ; for  his  sorrowing  children 

Turns  He  ne’er  from  his  door,  but  He  heals  and  helps  and  consoles  them. 

Yet  is  it  better  to  pray  when  all  things  are  prosperous  with  us, 

Pray  in  fortunate  days,  for  life’s  most  beautiful  Fortune 
Kneels  before  the  Eternal’s  throne  ; and  with  hands  interfolded, 

Praises  thankful  and  moved  the  only  giver  of  blessings. 

Or  do  ye  know,  ye  children,  one  blessing  that  conies  not  from  Heaven? 

Wh  at  has  mankind  forsooth,  the  poor ! that  it  has  not  received  ? 

Therefore,  fall  in  the  dust  and  pray  ! The  seraphs  adoring 
Cover  with  pinions  six  their  face  in  the  glory  of  Him  who 
Hung  his  masonry  pendent  on  naught,  when  the  world  He  created. 

Earth  declareth  his  might,  and  the  firmament  utters  his  glory. 

Races  blossom  and  die,  and  stars  fall  downward  from  heaven, 

Downward  like  withered  leaves;  at  the  last  stroke  of  midnight,  millenniums 
Lay  themselves  down  at  his  feet,  and  He  sees  them,  but  counts  them  as  nothing. 
Who  shall  stand  in  his  presence?  The  wrath  of  the  Judge  is  terrific, 

Casting  the  insolent  down  at  a glance.  When  lie  speaks  in  his  anger 
Hillocks  skip  like  the  kid,  and  mountains  leap  like  the  roebuck. 

Yet,  — why  are  ye  afraid,  ye  children?  This  awful  avenger, 

Ah ! is  a merciful  God  ! God’s  voice  was  not  in  the  earthquake, 


HENR  V WA  DS  WO  II  Til  L ON  GFJSL  L 0 W 


53 


Not  in  the  fire,  nor  the  storm,  but  it  was  in  the  whispering  breezes. 

Love  is  the  root  of  creation  ; God’s  essence ; worlds  without  number 
Lie  in  his  bosom  like  children;  He  made  them  for  this  purpose  only. 

Only  to  love  and  to  be  loved  again,  He  breathed  forth  his  spirit 

Into  the  slumbering  dust,  and  upright  standing,  it  laid  its 

Hand  on  its  heart,  and  felt  it  was  warm  with  a flame  out  of  heaven. 

Quench,  oh  quench  not  that  flame  ! It  is  the  breath  of  your  being. 

Love  is  life,  but  hatred  is  death.  Not  father,  nor  mother 
Loved  you,  as  God  has  loved  you  ; for  ’t  was  that  you  may  be  happy 
Gave  He  his  only  Son.  When  He  bowed  down  his  head  in  the  death-hour 
Solemnized  Love  its  triumph ; the  sacrifice  then  was  completed. 

Lo ! then  was  rent  on  a sudden  the  veil  of  the  temple,  dividing 
Earth  and  heaven  apart,  and  the  dead  from  their  sepulchres  rising 
Whispered  with  pallid  lips  and  low  in  the  ears  of  each  other 
Th’  answer,  but  dreamed  of  before,  to  creation’s  enigma,  — Atonement ! 

Depths  of  Love  are  Atonement’s  depths,  for  Love  is  Atonement. 

Therefore,  child  of  mortality,  love  thou  the  merciful  Father  ; 

Wish  what  the  Holy  One  wishes,  and  not  from  fear,  but  affection  ; 

Fear  is  the  virtue  of  slaves  ; but  the  heart  that  lovetli  is  willing ; 

Perfect  was  before  God,  and  perfect  is  Love,  and  Love  only. 

Lovest  thou  God  as  thou  oughtest,  then  lovest  thou  likewise  thy  brethren  ; 

One  is  the  sun  in  heaven,  and  one,  only  one,  is  Love  also. 

Bears  not  each  human  figure  the  godlike  stamp  on  his  forehead  ? 

Readest  thou  not  in  his  face  thine  origin  ? Is  he  not  sailing 

Lost  like  thyself  on  an  ocean  unknown,  and  is  he  not  guided 

By  the  same  stars  that  guide  thee  ? Why  shouldst  thou  hate  then  thy  brother  ? 

Hateth  he  thee,  forgive  ! For  ’t  is  sweet  to  stammer  one  letter 

Of  the  Eternal’s  language  ; — on  earth  it  is  called  Forgiveness  ! 

Knowest  thou  Him,  who  forgave,  with  the  crown  of  thorns  on  his  temples  ? 
Earnestly  prayed  for  his  foes,  for  his  murderers  ? Say,  dost  thou  know  Him  ? 
Ah  ! thou  confessest  his  name,  so  follow  likewise  his  example, 

Think  of  thy  brother  no  ill,  but  throw  a veil  over  his  failings, 

Guide  the  erring  aright  ; for  the  good,  the  heavenly  shepherd 
Took  the  lost  lamb  in  his  arms,  and  bore  it  back  to  its  mother. 


54 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


This  is  the  fruit  of  Love,  and  it  is  by  its  fruits  that  we  know  it. 

Love  is  the  creature’s  welfare,  with  God  ; but  Love  among  mortals 
Is  but  an  endless  sigh  ! He  longs,  and  endures,  and  stands  waiting, 
Sutters  and  yet  rejoices,  and  smiles  with  tears  on  his  eyelids. 

Hope,  — so  is  called  upon  earth  his  recompense,  — Hope,  the  befriending, 
Does  what  she  can,  for  she  points  evermore  up  to  heaven,  and  faithful 
Plunges  her  anchor’s  peak  in  the  depths  of  the  grave,  and  beneath  it 
Paints  a more  beautiful  world,  a dim,  but  a sweet  play  of  shadows  ! 
Races,  better  than  we,  have  leaned  on  her  wavering  promise, 

Having  naught  else  but  Hope.  Then  praise  we  our  Father  in  heaven, 
Him,  who  has  given  us  more;  for  to  us  has  Hope  been  transfigured. 
Groping  no  longer  in  night  ; she  is  Faith,  she  is  living  assurance. 


Faith  is  enlightened  Hope  ; she  is  light,  is  the  eye  of  affection, 

Dreams  of  the  longing  interprets,  and  carves  their  visions  in  marble. 
Faith  is  the  sun  of  life  ; and  her  countenance  shines  like  the  Hebrew  s, 
For  she  has  looked  upon  God  ; the  heaven  on  its  stable  foundation 
Draws  she  with  chains  down  to  earth,  and  the  New  Jerusalem  sinketh 
Splendid  with  portals  twelve  in  golden  vapors  descending. 

There  enraptured  she  wanders,  and  looks  at  the  figures  majestic, 

Fears  not  the  winged  crowd,  in  the  midst  of  them  all  is  her  homestead. 

Therefore  love  and  believe  ; for  works  will  follow  spontaneous 

Even  as  day  does  the  sun  ; the  Right  from  the  Good  is  an  offspring, 


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Love  in  a bodily  shape  ; and  Christian  works  are  no  more  than 
Animate  Love  and  faith,  as  flowers  are  the  animate  Springtide. 

Works  do  follow  us  all  unto  God ; there  stand  and  bear  witness 
Not  what  they  seemed,  — but  what  they  were  only.  Blessed  is  he  who 
Hears  their  confession  secure;  they  are  mute  upon  earth  until  death’s  hand 
Opens  the  mouth  of  the  silent.  Ye  children,  does  Death  e'er  alarm  you  ? 

Death  is  the  brother  of  Love,  twin-brother  is  he,  and  is  only 
More  austere  to  behold.  With  a-  kiss  upon  lips  that  are  fading 
Takes  he  the  soul  and  departs,  and,  rocked  in  the  arms  of  affection, 

Places  the  ransomed  child,  new  born,  ’fore  the  face  of  its  father. 

Sounds  of  his  coming  already  1 hear,  — see  dimly  his  pinions, 

Swart  as  the  night,  but  with  stars  strewn  upon  them  ! I fear  not  before  him. 

Death  is  only  release,  and  in  mercy  is  mute.  On  his  bosom 
Freer  breathes,  in  its  coolness,  my  breast  ; and  face  to  face  standing 
Look  1 on  God  as  He  is,  a sun  unpolluted  by  vapors  ; 

Look  on  the  light  of  the  ages  I loved,  the  spirits  majestic, 

Nobler,  better  than  I ; they  stand  by  the  tin-one  all  transfigured, 

Vested  in  white,  and  with  harps  of  gold,  and  are  singing  an  anthem, 

Writ  in  the  climate  of  heaven,  in  the  language  spoken  by  angels. 

You,  in  like  manner,  ye  children  beloved,  lie  one  day  shall  gather, 

Never  forgets  he  the  weary ; — then  welcome,  ye  loved  ones,  hereafter  ! 

Meanwhile  forget  not  the  keeping  of  vows,  forget  not  the  promise, 

Wander  from  holiness  onward  to  holiness ; earth  shall  ye  heed  not ; 

Earth  is  but  dust  and  heaven  is  light ; I have  pledged  you  to  heaven. 

God  of  the  universe,  hear  me  ! thou  fountain  of  Love  everlasting, 

Hark  to  the  voice  of  thy  servant ! I send  up  my  prayer  to  thy  heaven  ! 

Let  me  hereafter  not  miss  at  thy  throne  one  spirit  of  all  these, 

Whom  thou  hast  given  me  here  ! I have  loved  them  all  like  a father. 

May  they  bear  witness  for  me,  that  I taught  them  the  way  of  salvation, 

Faithful,  so  far  as  I knew,  of  thy  word ; again  may  they  know  me, 

Fall  on  their  Teacher’s  breast,  and  before  thy  face  may  I place  them, 

Pure  as  they  now  are,  but  only  more  tried,  and  exclaiming  with  gladness, 

Father,  lo  ! I am  here,  and  the  children,  whom  thou  hast  given  me  ! ” 

Weeping  he  spake  in  these  words  ; and  now  at  the  beck  of  the  old  man 
Knee  against  knee  they  knitted  a wreath 'round  the  altar’s  enclosure. 

Kneeling  he  read  then  the  prayers  of  the  consecration,  and  softly 
With  him  the  children  read ; at  the  close,  with  tremulous  accents. 

Asked  he  the  peace  of  Heaven,  a benediction  upon  them. 

Now  should  have  ended  his  task  for  the  day  ; the  following  Sunday 
W as  for  the  young  appointed  to  eat  of  the  Lord’s  holy  Supper. 

Sudden,  as  struck  from  the  clouds,  stood  the  Teacher  silent  and  laid  his 
Hand  on  his  forehead,  and  cast  his  looks  upward ; while  thoughts  high  and  holy 
Flew  through  the  midst  of  his  soul,  and  his  eyes  glanced  with  wonderful  brightness. 
“ On  the  next  Sunday,  who  knows ! perhaps  I shall  rest  in  the  graveyard  ! 

Some  one  perhaps  of  yourselves,  a lily  broken  untimely, 

Bow  down  his  head  to  the  earth  ; why  delay  I ? the  hour  is  accomplished. 

Warm  is  the  heart ; — I wall ! for  to-day  grows  the  harvest  of  heaven. 

What  I began  accomplish  I now  ; what  failing  therein  is 
I,  the  old  man,  will  answer  to  God  and  the  reverend  father. 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Say  to  me  only,  ye  children,  ye  denizens  new-come  in  heaven, 

Are  ye  ready  this  day  to  eat  of  the  bread  of  Atonement  ? 

What  it  denoteth,  that  know  ye  full  well,  I have  told  it  you  often. 

Of  the  new  covenant  symbol  it  is,  of  Atonement  a token, 

Stablislied  between  earth  and  heaven.  Man  by  his  sins  and  transgressions 
Far  has  wandered  from  God,  from  his  essence.  'T  was  in  the  beginning 
Fast  by  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  he  fell,  and  it  hangs  its  crown  o’er  the 
Fall  to  this  day  ; in  the  Thought  is  the  Fall  ; in  the  Heart  the  Atonement. 
Infinite  is  the  fall,  — the  Atonement  infinite  likewise. 

See ! behind  me,  as  far  as  the  old  man  remembers,  and  forward, 

Far  as  Hope  in  her  flight  can  reach  with  her  wearied  pinions, 

Sin  and  Atonement  incessant  go  through  the  lifetime  of  mortals, 

Sin  is  brought  forth  full-grown  ; but  Atonement  sleeps  in  our  bosoms 
Still  as  the  cradled  babe  ; and  dreams  of  heaven  and  of  angels, 

Cannot  awake  to  sensation  ; is  like  the  tones  in  the  harp’s  strings, 

Spirits  imprisoned,  that  wait  evermore  the  deliverer’s  finger. 

Therefore,  ye  children  beloved,  descended  the  Prince  of  Atonement, 

Woke  the  slumberer  from  sleep,  and  she  stands  now  with  eyes  all  resplendent, 
Bright  as  the  vault  of  the  sky,  and  battles  with  Sin  and  o’ercomes  her. 
Downward  to  earth  He  came  and,  transfigured,  thence  reascended, 

Not  from  the  heart  in  like  wise,  for  there  He  still  lives  in  the  Spirit, 


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Loves  and  atones  evermore.  So  long  as  Time  is,  is  Atonement. 

Therefore  with  reverence  take  this  day  her  visible  token. 

Tokens  are  dead  if  the  things  live  not.  The  light  everlasting 
Unto  the  blind  is  not,  but  is  born  of  the  eye  that  has  vision. 

Neither  in  bread  nor  in  wine,  but  in  the  heart  that  is  hallowed 
Lieth  forgiveness  enshrined  ; the  intention  alone  of  amendment 
Fruits  of  the  earth  ennobles  to  heavenly  things,  and  removes  all 
Sin  and  the  guerdon  of  sin.  Only  Love  with  his  arms  wide  extended, 

Penitence  weeping  and  praying ; the  Will  that  is  tried,  and  whose  gold  flows 
Purified  forth  from  the  flames;  in  a word,  mankind  by  Atonement 
Breaketh  Atonement’s  bread,  and  drinketh  Atonement’s  wine-cup. 

But  he  who  cometli  up  hither,  unworthy,  with  hate  in  his  bosom, 

Scoffing  at  men  and  at  God,  is  guilty  of  Christ’s  blessed  body, 

And  the  Redeemer’s  blood ! To  himself  he  eateth  and  drinketh 
Death  and  doom  ! And  from  this,  preserve  us,  thou  heavenly  Father ! 

Are  ye  ready,  ye  children,  to  eat  of  the  bread  of  Atonement?” 

Thus  with  emotion  he  asked,  and  together  answered  the  children, 

“ Yes ! ” with  deep  sobs  interrupted.  Then  read  he  the  due  supplications, 

Read  the  Form  of  Communion,  and  in  chimed  the  organ  and  anthem  : 

“ ( ) Holy  Lamb  of  God,  who  takest  away  our  transgressions, 

Hear  us  ! give  us  thy  peace  ! have  mercy,  have  mercy  upon  us  ! ” 

Tli'  old  man,  with  trembling  hand,  and  heavenly  pearls  on  his  eyelids, 

Filled  now  the  chalice  and  paten,  and  dealt  round  the  mystical  symbols. 

Oh,  then  seemed  it  to  me  as  if  God,  with  the  broad  eye  of  midday, 

Clearer  looked  in  at  the  windows,  and  all  the  trees  in  the  churchyard 
Bowed  down  their  summits  of  green,  and  the  grass  on  the  graves  ’gan  to  shiver. 
But  in  the  children  (I  noted  it  well ; I knew  it)  there  ran  a 
Tremor  of  holy  rapture  along  through  their  ice-cold  members. 

Decked  like  an  altar  before  them,  there  stood  the  green  earth,  and  above  it 
Heaven  opened  itself,  as  of  old  before  Stephen ; they  saw  there 
Radiant  in  glory  the  Father,  and  on  his  right  hand  the  Redeemer. 

Under  them  hear  they  the  clang  of  harpstrings,  and  angels  from  gold  clouds 
Beckon  to  them  like  brothers,  and  fan  with  their  pinions  of  purple. 

Closed  was  the  Teacher’s  task,  and  with  heaven  in  their  hearts  and  their  faces, 
Ftp  rose  the  children  all,  and  each  bowed  him,  weeping  full  sorely, 

Downward  to  kiss  that  reverend  hand,  but  all  of  them  pressed  he 
Moved  to  his  bosom,  and  laid,  with  a prayer,  his  hands  full  of  blessings, 

Now  on  the  holy  breast,  and  now  on  the  innocent  tresses. 


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THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 


Under  a spreading  chestnut  tree 
The  village  smithy  stands  ; 

The  smith,  a mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands  ; 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 
Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 
His  face  is  like  the  tan ; 

His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 


He  earns  whate’er  he  can, 

And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 
For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
Yon  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 


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And  children  coming  home  from  school 
Look  in  at  the  open  door  ; 

They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

Ami  hear  the  bellows  roar, 

And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  My 
Like  chart'  from  a threshing-floor. 

lie  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys; 
lie  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach. 

He  hears  his  daughter’s  voice, 

Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother’s  voice, 
Singing  in  Paradise  ! 
lie  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more. 


How  in  the  grave  she  lies; 

And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 
A tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  — rejoicing,  — sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 

Something  attempted,  something  done, 

Has  earned  a night’s  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought  ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 


ENDYMION. 


The  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars ; 

Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 

Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 

With  shadows  brown  between. 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 

As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams, 

Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 
Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a tranquil  night  as  this, 

She  woke  Endymion  with  a kiss, 

When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 

He  dreamed  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian’s  kiss,  unasked,  unsought. 

Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought ; 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassioned  gaze. 

It  comes,  — the  beautiful,  the  free, 

The  crown  of  all  humanity,  — 

In  silence  and  alone 
To  seek  the  elected  one. 

It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep 

Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep, 

And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 
Of  him,  who  slumbering  lies. 


O weary  hearts  ! O slumbering  eyes  ! 
O drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 
Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 
Ye  shall  be  loved  again  ! 


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THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 

No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 
Responds  unto  his  own. 


Responds,  — as  if  with  unseen  wings, 

An  angel  touched  its  quivering  strings ; 
And  whispers,  in  its  song, 
u Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long  ? ” 


THE  TWO  LOCKS  OF  HAIR. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  PFIZER. 


A YOUTH,  light-hearted  and  content, 

1 wander  through  the  world ; 

Here,  Arab-like,  is  pitched  my  tent 
And  straight  again  is  furled. 

Yet  oft  I dream,  that  once  a wife 
Close  in  my  heart  was  locked, 

And  in  the  sweet  repose  of  life 
A blessed  child  I rocked. 

1 wake  ! Away  that  dream,  — away  ! 

Too  long  did  it  remain ! 

So  long,  that  both  by  night  and  day 
It  ever  comes  again. 

'Fhe  end  lies  ever  in  my  thought ; 

To  a grave  so  cold  and  deep 


The  mother  beautiful  was  brought  ; 

Then  dropt  the  child  asleep. 

But  now  the  dream  is  wholly  o'er, 

I bathe  mine  eyes  and  see  ; 

And  wander  through  the  world  once  more, 
A youth  so  light  and  free. 

Two  locks  — and  they  are  wondrous  fair  — 
Left  me  that  vision  mild  ; 

The  brown  is  from  the  mother’s  hair. 

The  blond  is  from  the  child. 

And  when  I see  that  lock  of  gold. 

Pale  grows  the  evening-red ; 

And  when  the  dark  lock  I behold, 

I wish  that  I were  dead. 


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IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY. 

No  hay  ptijaros  en  los  nidos  <le  antaiio. 

Spanish  Proverb. 


The  sun  is  bright,  — the  air  is  clear, 
The  darting  swallows  soar  and  sing, 
And  from  the  stately  elms  I hear 
The  bluebird  prophesying  Spring. 

So  blue  yon  winding  river  flows. 

It  seems  an  outlet  from  the  sky, 
Where  waiting  till  the  west  wind  blows, 
The  freighted  clouds  at  anchor  lie. 


All  things  are  new;  — 
the  buds,  the  leaves, 
That  gild  the  elm-tree’s 
nodding  crest, 

And  even  the  nest 

beneath  the  eaves ; — 
There  are  no  birds 


All  things  rejoice  in  youth  and  love, 

The  fulness  of  their  first  delight ! 

And  learn  from  the  soft  heavens  above 
The  melting  tenderness  of  night. 

Maiden,  that  read’st  this  simple  rhyme, 
Enjoy  thy  youth,  it  will  not  stay; 

Enjoy  the  fragrance  of  thy  prime, 

For  oh,  it  is  not  always  May  ! 

Enjoy  the  Spring  of  Love  and  Youth, 

To  some  good  angel  leave  the  rest ; 

For  Time  will  teach  thee  soon  the  truth, 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year’s  nest ! 


The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary ; 

It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 

The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall. 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 

And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

Aly  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 

It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary ; 

My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  Past, 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart ! and  cease  repining ; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining; 

1 by  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all. 

Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 


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THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


GOD’S-ACRE. 


I like  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase,  which  calls 
The  burial-ground  God’s-Acre  ! It  is  just ; 

It  consecrates  each  grave  -within  its  walls, 
And  breathes  a benison  o’er  the  sleeping- 
dust. 

God’s-Acre  ! Yes,  that  blessed  name  imparts 
Comfort  to  those  who  in  the  grave  have  sown 

The  seed  that  they  had  garnered  in  then- 
hearts, 

Their  bread  of  life,  alas ! no  more  their 
own. 

Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  cast, 

In  the  sure  faith,  that  we  shall  rise  again 


At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  archangel’s 
blast 

Shall  winnow,  like  a fan,  the  chaff  and  grain. 

Then  shall  the  good  stand  in  immortal  bloom. 
In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth  ; 

And  each  bright  blossom  mingle  its  perfume 
With  that  of  flowers,  which  never  bloomed 
on  earth. 

With  thy  rude  ploughshare,  Death,  turn  up  the 
sod, 

And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we  sow ; 

This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God, 

This  is  the  place  where  human  harvests  grow 


TO  THE  RIVER  CHARLES. 


River  ! that  in  silence  windest 

Th  rough  the  meadows,  bright  and  free, 
Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  findest 
In  the  bosom  of  the  sea  ! 

Four  long  years  of  mingled  feeling. 

Half  in  rest,  and  half  in  strife, 

I have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 
Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life. 


Thou  hast  taught  me,  Silent  River ! 

Many  a lesson,  deep  and  long  ; 
Thou  hast  been  a generous  giver ; 

I can  give  thee  but  a song. 

Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness, 

I have  watched  thy  current  glide, 
Till' the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a tide. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONG  FELLOW. 


And  in  better  hours  and  brighter, 

When  I saw  thy  waters  gleam, 

I have  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter, 

And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 

Not  for  this  alone  1 love  thee, 

Nor  because  thy  waves  of  blue 
From  celestial  seas  above  thee 
Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 

Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  thee, 
And  thy  waters  disappear, 

Friends  1 love  have  dwelt  beside  thee, 
And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 


More  than  this; — thy  name  reminds  me 
Of  three  friends,  all  true  and  tried; 
And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  me 
Closer,  closer  to  thy  side. 

Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers ! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  start, 
When  I fan  the  living  embers 
On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart! 

’T  is  for  this,  thou  Silent  River  ! 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee  ; 

Thou  hast  been  a generous  giver, 

Take  this  idle  song  from  me. 


BLIND  BARTIMEUS. 


Blind  Bartimeus  at  the  gates 
Of  Jericho  in  darkness  waits  ; 

He  hears  the  crowd;  — he  hears  a breath 
Say,  “ It  is  Christ  of  Nazareth  ! ” 

And  calls,  in  tones  of  agony, 

’Ipaot',  eXeijo’d v pe/ 

The  thronging  multitudes  increase  ; 

Blind  Bartimeus,  hold  thy  peace ! 

But  still,  above  the  noisy  crowd, 

The  beggar’s  cry  is  shrill  and  loud  ; 

Until  they  say,  “ He  calleth  thee  ! ” 

©apcrei,  tyeipai,  <£u> vei  c re  / 


Then  saitli  the  Christ,  as  silent  stands 
The  crowd,  “ What  wilt  thou  at  my  hands 
And  he  replies,  “ Oh,  give  me  light ! 
Rabbi,  restore  the  blind  man's  sight.” 

And  Jesus  answers,  "Ymiye  • 

H Wcm?  crou  crecrwKe  erf ! 

Ye  that  have  eyes,  yet  cannot  see, 

In  darkness  and  in  misery. 

Recall  those  mighty  Voices  Three, 

’Ir/eruv,  iXfrjeroy  fxf  ! 

®ap<7£ i,  eyeipai,  vrrayf ! 

H WcTTlS  fTOV  (7€(T0JK€  CTf ! 


64 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


TIIE  GOBLET  OF  LIFE. 


Filled  is  Life’s  goblet  to  the  brim ; 

And  though  my  eyes  with  tears  are  dim, 
I see  its  sparkling  bubbles  swim, 

And  chant  a melancholy  hymn 
With  solemn  voice  and  slow. 

No  purple  flowers, — >no  garlands  green, 
Conceal  the  goblet’s  shade  or  sheen, 

Nor  maddening  draughts  of  Hippocrene, 
Like  gleams  of  sunshine,  flash  between 
Thick  leaves  of  mistletoe. 

This  goblet,  wrought  with  curious  art, 

Is  filled  with  waters,  that  upstart, 

When  the  deep  fountains  of  the  heart, 

By  strong  convulsions  rent  apart, 

Are  running  all  to  waste. 

And  as  it  mantling  passes  round, 

With  fennel  is  it  wreathed  and  crowned, 
Whose  seed  and  foliage  sun-imbrowned 
Are  in  its  waters  steeped  and  drowned, 
And  give  a bitter  taste. 

Above  the  lowly  plants  it  towers, 

The  fennel,  with  its  yellow  flowers, 

And  in  an  earlier  age  than  ours 
W as  gifted  with  the  wondrous  powers, 
Lost  vision  to  restore. 

It  gave  new  strength,  and  fearless  mood  ; 
And  gladiators,  fierce  and  rude, 

Mingled  it  in  their  daily  food; 

And  he  who  battled  and  subdued, 

A wreath  of  fennel  wore. 


Then  in  Life's  goblet  freely  press, 

The  leaves  that  give  it  bitterness, 

Nor  prize  the  colored  waters  less, 

For  in  thy  darkness  and  distress 

New  light  and  strength  they  give ! 

And  he  who  has  not  learned  to  know 
How  false  its  sparkling  bubbles  show, 

How  bitter  are  the  drops  of  Avoe, 

With  which  its  brim  may  overflow, 

He  has  not  learned  to  live. 

The  prayer  of  Ajax  was  for  light; 
Through  all  that  dark  and  desperate  fight, 
The  blackness  of  that  noonday  night, 

He  asked  but  the  return  of  sight, 

To  see  his  foeman's  face. 

Let  our  unceasing,  earnest  prayer 

Be,  too,  for  light,  — for  strength  to  bear 

( )ur  portion  of  the  weight  of  care, 

That  crushes  into  dumb  despair 
One  half  the  human  race. 

0 suffering,  sad  humanity ! 

()  ye  afflicted  ones,  who  lie 
Steeped  to  the  lips  in  misery, 

Longing,  and  yet  afraid  to  die, 

Patient,  though  sorely  tried ! 

1 pledge  you  in  this  cup  of  grief, 

AVliere  floats  the  fennel’s  bitter  leaf! 

The  Battle  of  our  Life  is  brief, 

The  alarm,  — the  struggle,  — the  relief, 
Then  sleep  we  side  by  side. 


MAIDENHOOD. 


Maiden  ! with  the  meek,  brown  eyes. 
In  whose  orbs  a shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies  ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 

As  the  braided  streamlets  run  ! 


Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet! 

Gazing,  with  a timid  glance, 

On  the  brooklet’s  swift  advance, 
On  the  river’s  broad  expanse  ! 


HENR  Y WADS  WOR TH  L ONGFELL  0 W. 


66 


Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 

As  the  river  of  a dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 

As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 
Sees  the  falcon’s  shadow  fly  ? 


Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 

That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 

Deafened  by  the  cataract’s  roar? 

Oh,  thou  child  of  many  prayers! 

Life  hath  quicksands,  — Life  hath  snares! 
Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 

May  glides  onward  into  June. 


Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered  ; — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 

To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a lily  in  thy  hand  ; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 
One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

9 


Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 

On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

Oh,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds  that  cannot  heal, 

Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal  ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a sunless  heart. 

For  a smile  of  God  thou  art. 


66 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


EXCELSIOR. 


The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A youth,  who  bore,  ’mid  snow  and  ice, 
A banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior  ! 

His  brow  was  sad  ; his  eye  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior ! 


“ Beware  the  pine-tree’s  withered  branch  ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  ! ” 

This  was  the  peasant’s  last  Good-night, 
A voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 

A voice  cried  through  the  startled  air. 
Excelsior  ! 


In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  lires  gleam  warm  and  bright; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 

And  from  his  lips  escaped  a groan, 
Excelsior ! 


A traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 


“ Try  not  the  Pass  ! ” the  old  man  said ; 
“ Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 

The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  ! ” 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior  ! 


There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 

And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 

A voice  fell,  like  a falling  star, 
Excelsior ! 


u Oh  stay,”  the  maiden  said,  “ and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast ! ” 
A tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a sigh, 
Excelsior ! , 


[The  following  poems,  with  one,  exception,  were  written  at  sea,  in  the  latter  part  of  October,  1842.  I had  not  then 
heard  of  Dr.  Channing’s  death.  Since  that  event,  the  poem  addressed  to  him  is  no  longer  appropriate.  I have  decided, 
however,  to  let  it  remain  as  it  was  written,  in  testimony  of  my  admiration  for  a great  and  good  man.] 


TO  WILLIAM  E.  CHANNING. 


The  pages  of  thy  book  I read, 

And  as  I closed  each  one, 

My  heart,  responding,  ever  said, 

“ Servant  of  God  ! well  done  ! ” 

Well  done  ! Thy  words  are  great  and  bold  ; 

At  times  they  seem  to  me, 

Like  Luther’s,  in  the  days  of  old, 
Half-battles  for  the  free. 

Go  on,  until  this  land  revokes 
The  old  and  chartered  Lie, 


The  feudal  curse,  whose  whips  and  yokes 
Insult  humanity. 

A voice  is  ever  at  thy  side 
Speaking  in  tones  of  might, 

Like  the  prophetic  voice,  that  cried 
To  John  in  Patinos,  “ Write  ! ” 

Write  ! and  tell  out  this  bloody  tale  ; 

Record  this  dire  eclipse, 

This  Day  of  Wrath,  this  Endless  Wail, 
This  dread  Apocalypse  ! 


THE  SLAVE’S  DREAM. 


Beside  the  ungathered  rice  he  lay. 

His  sickle  in  his  hand  ; 

His  breast  was  bare,  his  matted  hair 
Was  buried  in  the  sand. 

Again,  in  the  mist  and  shadow  of  sleep. 
He  saw  his  Native  Land. 

Wide  through  the  landscape  of  his  dreams 
The  lordly  Niger  flowed  ; 

Beneath  the  palm  trees  on  the  plain 
Once  more  a king  he  strode  ; 

And  heard  the  tinkling  caravans 
Descend  the  mountain  road. 


He  saw  once  more  his  dark-eyed  queen 
Among  her  children  stand ; 

They  clasped  his  neck,  they  kissed  his  cheeks, 
They  held  him  by  the  hand  ! — 

A tear  burst  from  the  sleeper’s  lids 
And  fell  into  the  sand. 

And  then  at  furious  speed  he  rode 
Along  the  Niger’s  bank  ; 

His  bridle-reins  were  golden  chains, 

And,  with  a martial  clank. 

At  each  leap  he  could  feel  his  scabbard  of  steel 
Smiting  his  stallion’s  flank. 


TO 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Before  him,  like  a blood-red  flag, 

The  bright  flamingoes  flew  ; 

From  morn  till  night  he  followed  their  flight, 
O'er  plains  where  the  tamarind  grew, 

Till  he  saw  the  roofs  of  Caffre  huts, 

And  the  ocean  rose  to  view. 

At  night  he  heard  the  lion  roar, 

And  the  hyena  scream, 

And  the  river-horse,  as  he  crushed  the  reeds 
Beside  some  hidden  stream  ; 

And  it  passed,  like  a glorious  roll  of  drums, 
Through  the  triumph  of  his  dream. 


The  forests,  with  their  myriad  tongues, 
Shouted  of  liberty  ; 

And  the  Blast  of  the  Desert  cried  aloud, 
With  a voice  so  wild  and  free, 

That  he  started  in  his  sleep  and  smiled 
At  their  tempestuous  glee. 

He  did  not  feel  the  driver’s  whip, 

Nor  the  burning  heat  of  day  ; 

For  Death  had  illumined  the  Land  of  Sleep, 
And  his  lifeless  body  lay 

A worn-out  fetter,  that  the  soul 
Had  broken  and  thrown  away  ! 


THE  GOOD  FART, 

THAT  SHALL  NOT  BE  TAKEN  AWAY. 


She  dwells  by  Great  Kenhawa’s  side, 
In  valleys  green  and  cool  ; 

And  all  her  hope  and  all  her  pride 
Are  in  the  village  school. 

Her  soul,  like  the  transparent  air 
That  robes  the  hills  above. 

Though  not  of  earth,  encircles  there 
All  things  with  arms  of  love. 


And  thus  she  walks  among  her  girls 
With  praise  and  mild  rebukes  ; 
Subduing  e’en  rude  village  churls 
By  her  angelic  looks. 

She  reads  to  them  at  eventide 
Of  One  who  came  to  save  ; 

To  cast  the  captive’s  chains  aside 
And  liberate  the  slave. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


i 


And  oft  the  blessed  time  foretells 
When  all  men  shall  be  free  ; 

And  musical,  as  silver  bells, 

Their  falling  chains  shall  be. 

And  following  her  beloved  Lord, 

In  decent  poverty, 

She  makes  her  life  one  sweet  record 
And  deed  of  charity. 

For  she  was  rich,  and  gave  up  all 
To  break  the  iron  bands 


Of  those  who  waited  in  her  hall, 

And  labored  in  her  lands. 

Long  since  beyond  the  Southern  Sea 
Their  outbound  sails  have  sped, 
While  she,  in  meek  humility, 

Now  earns  her  daily  bread. 

It  is  their  prayers,  which  never  cease, 
That  clothe  her  with  such  grace  ; 
Their  blessing  is  the  light  of  peace 
That  shines  upon  her  face. 


THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP. 


In  dark  fens  of  the  Dismal  Swamp 
The  hunted  Negro  lay  ; 

He  saw  the  fire  of  the  midnight  camp, 

And  heard  at  times  a horse’s  tramp 
And  a bloodhound’s  distant  bay. 

Where  will-o'-the-wisps  and  glow-worms  shine, 
In  bulrush  and  in  brake  ; 

Where  waving  mosses  shroud  the  pine, 

And  the  cedar  grows,  and  the  poisonous  vine 
Is  spotted  like  the  snake ; 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Where  hardly  a human  foot  could  pass, 

Or  a human  heart  would  dare, 

On  the  quaking  turf  of  the  green  morass 
He  crouched  in  the  rank  and  tangled  grass, 
Like  a wild  beast  in  his  lair. 

A poor  old  slave,  infirm  and  lame ; 

Great  scars  deformed  his  face  ; 

On  his  forehead  he  bore  the  brand  of  shame, 
And  the  rags,  that  hid  his  mangled  frame, 

\\  rere  the  livery  of  disgrace. 


All  things  above  were  bright  and  fair, 
All  things  were  glad  and  free  ; 

Lithe  squirrels  darted  here  and  there, 
And  wild  birds  filled  the  echoing  air 
With  songs  of  Liberty  ! 

On  him  alone  was  the  doom  of  pain, 
From  the  morning  of  his  birth; 

On  him  alone  the  curse  of  Cain 
Fell,  like  a flail  on  the  garnered  grain, 
And  struck  him  to  the  earth ! 


THE  SLAVE  SINGING  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


Loud  he  sang  the  psalm  of  David  ! 
He,  a Negro  and  enslaved, 

Sang  of  Israel’s  victory, 

Sang  of  Zion,  bright  and  free. 

In  that  hour,  when  night  is  calmest, 
Sang  he  from  the  Hebrew  Psalmist, 
In  a voice  so  sweet  and  clear 
That  I could  not  choose  but  hear, 

Songs  of  triumph,  and  ascriptions, 
Such  as  reached  the  swart  Egyptians, 
When  upon  the  Red  Sea  coast 
Perished  Pharaoh  and  his  host. 


And  the  voice  of  his  devotion 
Filled  my  soul  with  strange  emotion; 
For  its  tones  by  turns  were  glad, 
Sweetly  solemn,  wildly  sad. 

Paul  and  Silas,  in  their  prison, 

Sang  of  Christ,  the  Lord  arisen, 

And  an  earthquake’s  arm  of  might 
Broke  their  dungeon-gates  at  night. 

But,  alas  ! what  holy  angel 
Brings  the  Slave  this  glad  evangel  ? 
And  what  earthquake’s  arm  of  might 
Breaks  his  dungeon-gates  at  night  V 


THE  WITNESSES. 


In  Ocean’s  wide  domains, 

Half  buried  in  the  sands, 

Lie  skeletons  in  chains, 

With  shackled  feet  and  hands. 

Beyond  the  fall  of  dews, 

Deeper  than  plummet  lies, 

Float  ships,  with  all  their  crews, 
No  more  to  sink  nor  rise. 

There  the  black  Slave-ship  swims, 
Freighted  with  human  forms, 
Whose  fettered,  fleshless  limbs 
Are  not  the  sport  of  storms. 


These  are  the  bones  of  Slaves ; 

They  gleam  from  the  abyss ; 

They  cry,  from  yawning  waves, 

“ We  are  the  Witnesses  ! ” 

Within  Earth’s  wide  domains 
Are  markets  for  men’s  lives , 

Their  necks  are  galled  with  chains, 
Their  wrists  are  cramped  with  gyves. 

Dead  bodies,  that  the  kite 
In  deserts  makes  its  prey ; 

Murders,  that  with  affright 

Scare  school-boys  from  their  play ! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


73 


All  evil  thoughts  and  deeds  ; 

Anger,  and  lust,  and  pride ; 

The  foulest,  rankest  weeds, 

That  choke  Life's  groaning  tide  ! 


These  are  the  woes  of  Slaves ; 

They  glare  from  the  abyss  ; 
They  cry,  from  unknown  graves, 
“ We  are  the  Witnesses  ! ” 


THE  QUADROON  GIRL 

i 


The  Slaver  in  the  broad  lagoon 
Lay  moored  with  idle  sail  ; 

He  waited  for  the  rising  moon, 

And  for  the  evening  gale. 

Under  the  shore  his  boat  was  tied, 
And  all  her  listless  crew 

Watched  the  gray  alligator  slide 
Into  the  still  bayou. 

Odors  of  orange-flowers,  and  spice, 
Reached  them  from  time  to  time, 

Like  airs  that  breathe  from  Paradise 
Upon  a world  of  crime. 


The  Planter,  under  his  roof  of  thatch. 
Smoked  thoughtfully  and  sIoav  ; 

The  Slaver’s  thumb  was  on  the  latch, 
He  seemed  in  haste  to  go. 

He  said,  “ My  ship  at  anchor  rides 
In  yonder  broad  lagoon  ; 

I only  wait  the  evening  tides, 

And  the  rising  of  the  moon.” 

Before  them,  with  her  face  upraised, 

In  timid  attitude, 

Like  one  half  curious,  half  amazed, 

A Quadroon  maiden  stood. 


10 


74 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


Her  eyes  were  large,  and  full  of  light. 

Her  arms  and  neck  were  bare  ; 

No  garment  she  wore  save  a kirtle  bright, 
And  her  own  long,  raven  hair. 

And  on  her  lips  there  played  a smile 
As  holy,  meek,  and  faint, 

As  lights  in  some  cathedral  aisle 
The  features  of  a saint. 

“ The  soil  is  barren,  — the  farm  is  old,” 

The  thoughtful  planter  said  ; 

Then  looked  upon  the  Slaver’s  gold, 

And  then  upon  the  maid. 


His  heart  within  him  was  at  strife 
With  such  accursed  gains : 

For  he  knew  whose  passions  gave  her  life, 
Wliose  blood  ran  in  her  veins. 

But  the  voice  of  nature  was  too  weak  ; 

He  took  the  glittering  gold  ! 

Then  pale  as  death  grew  the  maiden’s  cheek, 
Her  hands  as  icy  cold. 

The  Slaver  led  her  from  the  door, 

He  led  her  by  the  hand, 

To  be  his  slave  and  paramour 
In  a strange  and  distant  land  ! 


THE  WARNING. 


Beware  ! The  Israelite  of  old,  who  tore 
The  lion  in  his  path,  — when,  poor  and  blind, 
He  saw  the  blessed  light  of  heaven  no  more. 
Shorn  of  his  noble  strength  and  forced  to 
grind 

In  prison,  and  at  last  led  forth  to  be 
A pander  to  Philistine  revelry,  — 

Upon  the  pillars  of  the  temple  laid 

His  desperate  hands,  and  in  its  overthrow 
Destroyed  himself,  and  with  him  those  who 
made 


A cruel  mockery  of  his  sightless  woe  ; 

The  poor,  blind  Slave,  the  scoff  and  jest  of 
all, 

Expired,  and  thousands  perished  in  the  fall ! 

There  is  a poor,  blind  Samson  in  this  land, 
Shorn  of  his  strength  and  bound  in  bonds 
of  steel, 

Who  may,  in  some  grim  revel,  raise  his  hand, 
And  shake  the  pillars  of  this  Commonweal, 
Till  the  vast  Temple  of  our  liberties 
A shapeless  mass  of  wreck  and  rubbish  lies. 


THl 

® ^llKOls 


DRAMATIS  PERSONAL 


Victorian  j 
Hypolito  ) 

The  Count  of  Lara  ) 

Don  Carlos  ( 

Tiie  Archbishop  of  Toledo. 

A Cardinal. 

Beltran  Cruzado 

Bartolome  Roman 

The  Padre  Cura  of  Guadarrama. 

Pedro  Crespo  

Pancho 

Francisco 

Chispa 

Baltasar 

Preciosa  ........... 

Angelica  .......... 

Martina 

Dolores  ........... 

Gypsies,  Musicians,  etc. 


Students  of  Alcala. 
Gentlemen  of  Madrid. 


Count  of  the  Gypsies. 

A young  Gypsy. 

Alcalde. 

Alyuacil. 

Lara's  Servant. 
Victorian's  Servant. 
Innkeeper. 

A Gypsy  Girl. 

A poor  Girl. 

The  Padre  Cura's  Niece. 
Preciosa' s Maid. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I.  — The  Count  of  Lara’s  chambers.  Night. 
The  Count  in  his  dressing-gown, smoking  and  conversing 
with  Don  Carlos. 

Lara.  You  were  not  at  the  play  to-night, 
Don  Carlos  ; 

How  happened  it  ? 

Don  C.  I had  engagements  elsewhere. 

Pray  who  was  there  ? 

Lara.  Why,  all  the  town  and  court. 

The  house  was  crowded ; and  the  busy  fans 
Among  the  gayly  dressed  and  perfumed  ladies 
Fluttered  like  butterflies  among:  the  flowers. 
There  was  the  Countess  of  Medina  Celi  ; 

The  Goblin  Lady  with  her  Phantom  Lover, 
Her  Lindo  Don  Diego ; Doha  Sol, 

And  Dona  Serafina,  and  her  cousins. 

Don  C.  What  was  the  play  ? 

Lara.  It  was  a dull  affair ; 

One  of  those  comedies  in  which  you  see, 


As  Lope  says,  the  history  of  the  world 
Brought  down  from  Genesis  to  the  day  of 
Judgment. 

There  were  three  duels  fought  in  the  first  act. 
Three  gentlemen  receiving  deadly  wounds, 
Laying  their  hands  upon  their  hearts,  and 
saying, 

“ Oh,  I am  dead  ! ” a lover  in  a closet, 

An  old  hidalgo,  and  a gay  Don  Juan, 

A Doha  Inez  with  a black  mantilla, 

Followed  at  twilight  by  an  unknown  lover, 
Who  looks  intently  where  he  knows  she  is 
not ! 

Don.  C.  Of  course,  the  Preciosa  danced  to- 
night ? 

Lara.  And  never  better.  Every  footstep  fell 
As  lightly  as  a sunbeam  on  the  water. 

I think  the  girl  extremely  beautiful. 

Don  C.  Almost  beyond  the  privilege  of 
woman ! 

I saw  her  in  the  Prado  yesterday. 


78 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Her  step  was  royal,  — queen-like,  — and  her  face 
As  beautiful  as  a saint’s  in  Paradise. 

Lam.  May  not  a saint  fall  from  her  Par- 
adise, 

And  be  no  more  a saint? 

Don  C.  Why  do  you  ask? 

Lara.  Because  I have  heard  it  said  this 
angel  fell, 


And  though  she  is  a virgin  outwardly, 
Within  she  is  a sinner  ; like  those  panels 
Of  doors  and  altar-pieces  the  old  monks 
Painted  in  convents,  with  the  Virgin  Mary 
On  the  outside,  and  on  the  inside  Venus ! 
Don  C.  You  do  her  wrong;  indeed,  you  do 
her  wrong ! 

She  is  as  virtuous  as  she  is  fair. 


Lara.  How  credulous  you  are ! Why  look 
you,  friend, 

There  ’s  not  a virtuous  woman  in  Madrid, 

In  this  whole  city  ! And  would  you  persuade 
me 

That  a mere  dancing-girl,  who  shows  herself, 
Nightly,  half  naked,  on  the  stage,  for  money. 
And  with  voluptuous  motions  fires  the  blood 
Of  inconsiderate  youth,  is  to  be  held 
A model  for  her  virtue? 

Don  C.  You  forget 

She  is  a Gypsy  girl. 

Lara.  And  therefore  won 

The  easier. 


Don  C.  Nay,  not  to  be  won  at  all ! 

The  only  virtue  that  a Gypsy  prizes 
Is  chastity.  That  is  her  only  virtue. 

Dearer  than  life  she  holds  it.  I remember 
A Gypsy  woman,  a vile,  shameless  bawd, 
Whose  craft  was  to  betray  the  young  and 
fair  ; 

And  yet  this  woman  was  above  all  bribes. 
And  Avlien  a noble  lord,  touched  by  her 
beauty. 

The  wild  and  wizard  beauty  of  her  race. 
Offered  her  gold  to  be  what  she  made  others, 
She  turned  upon  him,  with  a look  of  scorn, 
And  smote  him  in  the  face  ! 


HENR  Y WADS  WOR TH  L ON G FELL  0 W. 


79 


Lara.  And  does  that  prove 

That  Preciosa  is  above  suspicion  ? 

Don  C.  It  proves  a nobleman  may  be  re- 
pulsed 

When  he  thinks  conquest  easy.  I believe 
That  woman,  in  her  deepest  degradation, 
Holds  something  sacred,  something  undefiled, 
Some  pledge  and  keepsake  of  her  higher  na- 
ture, 

And,  like  the  diamond  in  the  dark,  retains 
Some  quenchless  gleam  of  the  celestial  light ! 
Lara.  Yet  Preciosa  would  have  taken  the 
gold. 

Don  C.  (rising).  I do  not  think  so. 

Lara.  I am  sure  of  it. 

But  why  this  haste  ? Stay  yet  a little  longer. 
And  fight  the  battles  of  your  Dulcinea. 

Don  0.  'T  is  late.  I must  begone,  for  if  I 
stay 

You  will  not  be  persuaded. 

Lara.  Yes  ; persuade  me. 

Don  C.  No  one  so  deaf  as  he  who  will  not 
hear ! 

Lara.  No  one  so  blind  as  he  who  will  not 
see  ! 

Don  C.  And  so  good  night.  I wish  you 
pleasant  dreams, 

And  greater  faith  in  woman.  (Exit. 

Lara.  Greater  faith ! 

1 have  the  greatest  faith ; for  I believe 
Victorian  is  her  lover.  I believe 
That  I shall  be  to-morrow  ; and  thereafter 
Another,  and  another,  and  another, 

Chasing  each  other  through  her  zodiac, 

As  Taurus  chases  Aries. 

( Enter  Francisco  icith  a casket.) 

Well,  Francisco, 

What  speed  with  Preciosa? 

Fran.  None,  my  lord. 

She  sends  your  jewels  back,  and  bids  me  tell 
you 

She  is  not  to  be  purchased  by  your  gold. 
Lara.  Then  I will  try  some  other  way  to 
win  her. 

Pray,  dost  thou  know  Victorian? 

Fran.  Yes,  my  lord  ; 

I saw  him  at  the  jeweller’s  to-day. 

Lara.  What  was  he  doing  there? 

Fran.  I saw  him  buy 

A golden  ring,  that  had  a ruby  in  it. 


Lara.  Was  there  another  like  it? 

Fran.  One  so  like  it 

I could  not  choose  between  them. 

Lara.  It  is  well. 

To-morrow  morning  bring  that  ring  to  me. 

I)o  not  forget.  Now  light  me  to  my  bed. 

(Exeunt. 

Scene  II.  — A street  in  Madrid.  Enter  Chispa,  fol- 
lowed hy  musicians , with  a bagpipe,  guitars,  and  other 
instruments. 

Chispa.  Abernuncio  Satanas  ! and  a plague 
on  all  lovers  who  ramble  about  at  night 
drinking  the  elements,  instead  of  sleeping 
quietly  in  their  beds.  Every  dead  man  to 
his  cemetery,  say  I ; and  every  friar  to  his 
monastery.  Now,  here’s  my  master,  Victo- 
rian, yesterday  a cow-keeper,  and  to-day  a 
gentleman  ; yesterday  a student,  and  to-day 
a lover ; and  I must  be  up  later  than  the 
nightingale,  for  as  the  abbot  sings  so  must 
the  sacristan  respond.  God  grant  he  may 
soon  be  married,  for  then  shall  all  this  sere- 
nading cease.  Ay,  marry ! marry  ! marry ! 
Mother,  what  does  marry  mean?  It  means 
to  spin,  to  bear  children,  and  to  weep,  my 
daughter ! And,  of  a truth,  there  is  some- 
thing more  in  matrimony  than  the  wedding- 
ring.  (To  the  musicians.)  And  now,  gentle- 
men, Pax  vobiscum ! as  the  ass  said  to  the 
cabbages.  Pray,  walk  this  way ; and  don’t 
hang  down  your  heads.  It  is  no  disgrace  to 
have  an  old  father  and  a ragged  shirt.  Now, 
look  you,  you  are  gentlemen  who  lead  the 
life  of  crickets  ; you  enjoy  hunger  by  day  and 
noise  by  night.  Yet,  I beseech  you,  for  this 
once  be  not  loud,  but  pathetic ; for  it  is  a 
serenade  to  a damsel  in  bed,  and  not  to  the 
Man  in  the  Moon.  Your  object  is  not  to 
arouse  and  terrify,  but  to  soothe  and  bring 
lulling  dreams.  Therefore,  each  shall  not 
play  upon  his  instrument  as  if  it  were  the 
only  one  in  the  universe,  but  gently,  and 
with  a certain  modesty,  according  with  the 
others.  Pray,  how  may  I call  thy  name, 
friend  ? 

First  Mus.  Geronimo  Gil,  at  your  service. 
Chispa.  Every  tub  smells  of  the  wine  that 
is  in  it.  Pray,  Geronimo,  is  not  Saturday  an 
unpleasant  day  with  thee  ? 


80 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


First  Mils.  Why  so  ? 

Cliispa.  Because  I have  heard  it  said  that 
Saturday  is  an  unpleasant  day  with  those  who 
have  but  one  shirt.  Moreover,  I have  seen 
thee  at  the  tavern,  and  if  thou  canst  run  as 
fast  as  thou  canst  drink,  I should  like  to 
hunt  hares  with  thee.  What  instrument  is 
that  ? 

First  Mus.  An  Aragonese  bagpipe. 

Chispa.  Pray,  art  thou  related  to  the  bag- 
piper of  Bujalance,  who  asked  a maravedf  for 
playing,  and  ten  for  leaving  oft'  ? 

First  Mus.  No,  your  honor. 

Chispa.  I am  glad  of  it.  What  other  in- 
struments have  we  ? 

Second  and  Third  Musicians.  We  play  the 
bandurria. 

Chispa.  A pleasing  instrument.  And  thou  ? 

Fourth  Mus.  The  fife. 

Chispa.  I like  it ; it  has  a cheerful,  soul- 
stirring  sound,  that  soars  up  to  my  lady's 
window  like  the  song  of  a swallow.  And  you 
other 

Other  Mus.  We  are  the  singers,  please 
your  honor. 

Chispa.  You  are  too  many.  Do  you  think 
we  are  going  to  sing  mass  in  the  cathedral 


HENR  V WADS  WOR  TH  L ONGFELL  0 W. 


81 


of  C6rdova ? Four  men  can  make  but  little 
use  of  one  shoe,  and  I see  not  how  you  can 
all  sing  in  one  song.  But  follow  me  along 
the  garden  wall.  That  is  the  way  my  master 
climbs  to  the  lady’s  window.  It  is  by  the 
Vicar’s  skirts  that  the  Devil  climbs  into  the 
belfry.  Come,  follow  me,  and  make  no  noise. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  III.  — Preciosa’s  chamber.  She  stands  at  the 
open  window. 

P,  "ec.  How  slowly  through  the  lilac-scented 
air 

Descends  the  tranquil  moon ! Like  thistle- 
down 

The  vapory  clouds  float  in  the  peaceful  sky  ; 
And  sweetly  from  yon  hollow  vaults  of  shade 
The  nightingales  breathe  out  their  souls  in 
song. 

And  hark ! what  songs  of  love,  what  soul-like 
sounds, 

Answer  them  from  below ! 

SERENADE. 

Stars  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  in  yon  azure  deeps, 

Hide,  hide  your  golden  light! 

She  sleeps  ! 

My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps  ! 

Moon  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps, 

Sink,  sink  in  silver  light ! 

She  sleeps ! 

My  lady  sleeps  ! 

Sleeps ! 

Wind  of  the  summer  night ! 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps, 

Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light! 

She  sleeps ! 

My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps  ! 

Dreams  of  the  summer  night ! 

Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps 
Watch  ! while  in  slumbers  light 
She  sleeps! 

My  lady  sleeps! 

Sleeps ! 

11 


(Enter  Victorian  by  die  balcony.) 

Viet.  Poor  little  dove  ! Thou  tremblest  like 
a lea f ! 

Free.  I am  so  frightened  ! ’T  is  for  thee  I 
tremble ! 

I hate  to  have  thee  climb  that  wall  by  night! 
Did  no  one  see  thee  ? 

Viet.  None,  my  love,  but  thou. 

Prec.  ’T  is  very  dangerous  ; and  when  thou 
art  gone 

1 chide  myself  for  letting  thee  come  here 
Thus  stealthily  by  night.  Where  hast  thou 
been  ? 

Since  yesterday  I have  no  news  from  thee. 

Viet.  Since  yesterday  I have  been  in  Alcala. 
Erelong  the  time  will  come,  sweet  Preciosa, 
When  that  dull  distance  shall  no  more  divide 
us  ; 

And  I no  more  shall  scale  thy  wall  by  night 
To  steal  a kiss  from  thee,  as  I do  now. 

Prec.  An  honest  thief,  to  steal  but  what 
thou  givest. 

Viet.  And  we  shall  sit  together  unmolested, 
And  words  of  true  love  pass  from  tongue  to 
tongue, 

As  singing  birds  from  one  bough  to  another. 

Prec.  That  were  a life  to  make  time  en- 
vious ! 

I knew  that  thou  wouldst  come  to  me  to-night. 
I saw  thee  at  the  play. 

Viet.  Sweet  child  of  air ! 

Never  did  I behold  thee  so  attired 
And  garmented  in  beauty  as  to-night ! 

What  hast  thou  done  to  make  thee  look  so 
fair  ? 

Prec.  Am  I not  always  fair? 

Viet.  Ay,  and  so  fair 

That  I am  jealous  of  all  eyes  that  see  thee, 
And  wish  that  they  were  blind. 

Prec.  I heed  them  not; 

When  thou  art  present,  I see  none  but  thee ! 

Viet.  There ’s  nothing  fair  nor  beautiful,  but 
takes 

Something;  from  thee,  that  makes  it  beautiful. 

Prec.  And  yet  thou  leavest  me  for  those 
dusty  books. 

Viet.  Thou  comest  between  me  and  those 
books  too  often ! 

I see  thy  face  in  everything  I see  ! 

The  paintings  in  the  chapel  wear  thy  looks, 


82 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Viet.  The  sweetest  beggar  that  e’er  asked 
for  alms  ; 

With  such  beseeching  eyes,  that  when  I saw 
thee 

I gave  my  heart  away  ! 

Pi  •ec.  Dost  thou  remember 

When  first  we  met  ? 

Viet.  It  was  at  Cordova, 

In  the  cathedral  garden.  Thou  wast  sitting 
Under  the  orange  trees,  beside  a fountain. 
Prec.  ’T  was  Easter-S unday.  The  full-blos- 
somed trees 

Filled  all  the  air  with  fragrance  and  with  joy. 
The  priests  were  singing,  and  the  organ 
sounded, 

And  then  anon  the  great  cathedral  bell. 

It  Avas  the  elevation  of  the  Host. 

We  both  of  us  fell  doAvn  upon  our  knees, 
Under  the  orange  boughs,  and  prayed  together. 
I never  had  been  happy  till  that  moment. 
Viet.  Thou  blessed  angel  ! 

Prec.  And  Avhen  thou  wast  gone 

I felt  an  aching  here.  I did  not  speak 
To  any  one  that  day.  But  from  that  day 
Bartolome  grew  hateful  unto  me. 


The  canticles  are  changed  to  sarabands, 

And  with  the  learned  doctors  of  the  schools 
I see  thee  dance  cachuchas. 

Prec.  In  good  sooth, 

I dance  with  learned  doctors  of  the  schools 
To-morrow  morning. 

Viet.  And  with  Avhorn,  I pray  ? 

Prec.  A grave  and  reverend  Cardinal,  and 
his  Grace 

The  Archbishop  of  Toledo. 

Viet.  What  mad  jest 

Is  this  ? 

Prec.  It  is  no  jest ; indeed  it  is  not. 

Viet.  Prithee,  explain  thyself. 

Prec.  Why,  simply  thus. 

Thou  knowest  the  Pope  has  sent  here  into 
Spain 

To  put  a stop  to  dances  on  the  stage. 

Viet.  I have  heard  it  whispered. 

Prec.  Now  the  Cardinal, 

Who  for  this  purpose  comes,  would  fain  behold 
With  his  oavii  eyes  these  dances;  and  the  Arch- 
bishop 

Has  sent  for  me  — 

Viet.  That  thou  mayest  dance  before  them  ! 
Now  viva  la  cachucha ! It  will  breathe 
The  fire  of  youth  into  these  gray  old  men  ! 
’T  will  be  thy  proudest  conquest  ! 

Prec.  Sa\Ting  one. 

And  yet  I fear  these  dances  will  be  stopped, 
And  Preciosa  be  once  more  a beggar. 


HENR  Y IV  A DS  WOR  TH  L ON  OF  ELL  0 W 


83 


Viet.  Remember  him  no  more.  Let  not  his 
shadow 

Come  between  thee  and  me.  Sweet  Preciosa  ! 
I loved  thee  even  then,  though  I was  silent  ! 
Free.  I thought  I ne’er  should  see  thy  face 
again. 

Thy  farewell  had  a sound  of  sorrow  in  it. 
Viet,.  That  was  the  first  sound  in  the  song 
of  love ! 

Scarce  more  than  silence  is,  and  yet  a sound. 
Hands  of  invisible  spirits  touch  the  strings 
Of  that  mysterious  instrument,  the  soul, 

And  play  the  prelude  of  our  fate.  We  hear 
The  voice  prophetic,  and  are  not  alone. 

Free.  That  is  my  faith.  Dost  thou  believe 
these  warnings  ? 

Viet.  So  far  as  this.  Our  feelings  and  our 
thoughts 

Tend  ever  on,  and  rest  not  in  the  Present. 
As  drops  of  rain  fall  into  some  dark  well. 
And  from  below  comes  a scarce  audible  sound. 
So  fall  our  thoughts  into  the  dark  Hereafter, 
And  their  mysterious  echo  reaches  us. 

Prec.  I have  felt  it  so,  but  found  no  words 
to  say  it ! 

I cannot  reason ; I can  only  feel ! 

But  thou  hast  language  for  all  thoughts  and 
feelings. 

Thou  art  a scholar ; and  sometimes  I think 
We  cannot  walk  together  in  this  world  ! 

The  distance  that  divides  us  is  too  great ! 
Henceforth  thy  pathway  lies  among  the  stars ; 
I must  not  hold  thee  back. 

Viet.  Thou  little  skeptic  ! 

Dost  thou  still  doubt  ? What  I most  prize  in 
woman 

Is  her  affections,  not  her  intellect  ! 

The  intellect  is  finite  ; but  the  affections 
Are  infinite,  and  cannot  be  exhausted. 
Compare  me  with  the  great  men  of  the  earth; 
What  am  I ? Why,  a pygmy  among  giants  ! 
But  if  thou  lovest,  — mark  me!  I say  lovest. 
The  greatest  of  thy  sex  excels  thee  not ! 

The  world  of  the  affections  is  thy  world. 

Not  that  of  man’s  ambition.  In  that  stillness 
Which  most  becomes  a woman,  calm  and  holy, 
Thou  sittest  by  the  fireside  of  the  heart, 
Feeding  its  flame.  The  element  of  fire 
Is  pure.  It  cannot  change  nor  hide  its  nature, 
But  burns  as  brightly  in  a Gypsy  camp 


As  in  a palace  hall.  Art  thou  convinced? 

Ft  'ec.  Yes,  that  I love  thee,  as  the  good 
love  heaven  ; 

But  not  that  I am  worthy  of  that  heaven. 
How  shall  I more  deserve  it? 

Viet.  Loving  more. 

Free.  I cannot  love  thee  more  ; my  heart 
is  full. 

Viet.  Then  let  it  overflow,  and  I will  drink 
it, 

As  in  the  summer-time  the  thirsty  sands 
Drink  the  swift  waters  of  the  Manzanares, 
And  still  do  thirst  for  more. 

A Watchman  (in  the  street ).  Ave  Maria 
Purissima  ! ’T  is  midnight  and  serene  ! 

Viet.  Hear’st  thou  that  cry  ? 

Ft  •ec.  It  is  a hateful  sound, 

To  scare  thee  from  me  ! 

Viet,.  As  the  hunter’s  horn 

Doth  scare  the  timid  stag,  or  bark  of  hounds 
The  moor-fowl  from  his  mate. 

Prec.  Pray,  do  not  go  ! 

Viet.  I must  away  to  Alcala  to-night. 
Think  of  me  when  I am  away. 

Prec.  Fear  not ! 

I have  no  thoughts  that  do  not  think  of  thee. 
Viet,  (giving  her  a ring).  And  to  remind 
thee  of  my  love,  take  this  ; 

A serpent,  emblem  of  Eternity ; 

A ruby,  — say,  a drop  of  my  heart’s  blood. 

Prec.  It  is  an  ancient  saying,  that  the  ruby 
Brings  gladness  to  the  wearer,  and  preserves 
The  heart  pure,  and,  if  laid  beneath  the  pillow, 
Drives  away  evil  dreams.  But  then,  alas  ! 

It  was  a serpent  tempted  Eve  to  sin. 

Viet.  What  convent  of  barefooted  Carmel- 
ites 

Taught  thee  so  much  theology  ? 

Prec.  (laying  her  hand  upon  his  mouth). 

Hush  ! hush  ! 

Good  night  ! and  may  all  holy  angels  guard 
thee  ! 

Viet.  Good  night ! good  night  ! Thou  art 
my  guardian  angel  ! 

I have  no  other  saint  than  thou  to  pray  to  ! 
(He  descends  by  the  balcony .) 

Prec.  Take  care,  and  do  not  hurt  thee. 
Art  thou  safe? 

Viet,  (from  the  garden).  Safe  as  my  love 
for  thee  ! But  art  thou  safe  ? 


84 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Others  can  climb  a balcony  by  moonlight 
As  well  as  I.  Pray  shut  thy  window  close  ; 
I am  jealous  of  the  perfumed  air  of  night 
That  from  this  garden  climbs  to  kiss  thy  lips. 
Free.  ( throwing  down  her  handkerchief ). 
Thou  silly  child ! Take  this  to  blind 
thine  eyes. 

It  is  my  benison  ! 

Viet.  And  brings  to  me 

Sweet  fragrance  from  thy  lips,  as  the  soft  wind 
Wafts  to  the  out-bound  mariner  the  breath 
Of  the  beloved  land  he  leaves  behind. 

Free.  Make  not  thy  voyage  long. 

Viet.  To-morrow  night 

Shall  see  me  safe  returned.  Thou  art  the  star 
To  guide  me  to  an  anchorage.  Good  night ! 
My  beauteous  star  ! My  star  of  love,  good 
. night ! 

Pree.  Good  night ! 

Watchman  (at  a distance).  Ave  Maria 
Purissima ! 

Scene  IV.  — An  inn  on  the  road  to  Alcala.  Baltasar 
asleep  on  a bench.  Enter  Chispa. 

Chispa.  And  here  we  are,  half-way  to 
Alcala,  between  cocks  and  midnight.  Body 
o’  me!  what  an  inn  this  is!  The  lights  out, 
and  the  landlord  asleep.  Hola ! ancient  Bal- 
tasar ! 

Bal.  (waking).  Here  I am. 


Chispa.  Yes,  there  you  are,  like  a one-eyed 
Alcalde  in  a town  without  inhabitants.  Bring 
a light,  and  let  me  have  supper. 

Bal.  Where  is  your  master? 

Chispa.  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  him. 
We  have  stopped  a moment  to  breathe  our 
horses ; and,  if  he  chooses  to  walk  up  and 
down  in  the  open  air,  looking  into  the  sky 
as  one  who  hears  it  rain,  that  does  not  satisfy 
my  hunger,  you  know.  But  be  quick,  for  I 
am  in  a hurry,  and  every  man  stretches  his 
legs  according  to  the  length  of  his  coverlet. 
What  have  we  here  ? 

Bal.  (setting  a light  on  the  table).  Stewed 
rabbit. 

Chispa  (eating).  Conscience  of  Portal egre  ! 
Stewed  kitten,  you  mean  ! 

Bal.  And  a pitcher  of  Pedro  Ximenes,  with 
a roasted  pear  in  it. 

Chispa  (drinking) . Ancient  Baltasar,  amigo  ! 
You  know  how  to  cry  wine  and  sell  vinegar. 
I tell  you  this  is  nothing  but  Vinto  Tinto  of 
La  Mancha,  with  a tang  of  the  swine-skin. 

Bal.  I swear  to  you  by  Saint  Simon  and 
Judas,  it  is  all  as  I say. 

Chispa.  And  I swear  to  you  by  Saint  Peter 
and  Saint  Paul,  that  it  is  no  such  thing. 
Moreover,  your  supper  is  like  the  hidalgo’s 
dinner,  very  little  meat  and  a great  deal  of 
tablecloth. 

Bal.  Ha  ! ha  ! ha  ! 


IIKNR  Y WA  DS  WO  R TH  L ON  GFEL  L 0 W. 


85 


Chispa.  And  more  noise  than  nuts. 

Bal.  Ha ! ha ! ha ! You  must  have  your 
joke,  Master  Chispa.  But  shall  I not  ask  Don 
Victorian  in,  to  take  a draught  of  the  Pedro 
X imenes  ? 

Chispa.  No  ; you  might  as  well  say,  “ Don’t- 
you-want-some  ? ” to  a dead  man. 

Bal.  Why  does  he  go  so  often  to  Madrid  ? 

Chispa.  For  the  same  reason  that  he  eats 
no  supper.  He  is  in  love.  Were  you  ever  in 
love,  Baltasar  ? 

Bal.  I was  never  out  of  it,  good  Chispa. 
It  has  been  the  torment  of  my  life. 

Chispa.  What ! are  you  on  fire,  too,  old  hay- 
stack ? Why,  we  shall  never  be  able  to  put 
you  out. 

Viet,  (without).  Chispa  ! 

Chispa.  Go  to  bed,  Pero  Grullo,  for  the 
cocks  are  crowing. 

Viet.  Ea  ! Chispa  ! Chispa  ! 

Chispa.  Ea  ! Sefior.  Come  with  me,  ancient 
Baltasar,  and  bring  water  for  the  horses.  I 
will  pay  for  the  supper  to-morrow. 

{Exeunt. 


Scene  V. — Victorian’s  chambers  at  Alcala.  IIypo- 
lito  asleep  in  an  arm-chair.  He  awakes  slowly. 

Hyp.  I must  have  been  asleep ! ay,  sound 
asleep  ! 

And  it  was  all  a dream.  O sleep,  sweet  sleep  ! 
Whatever  form  thou  takest,  thou  art  fair, 
Holding  unto  our  lips  thy  goblet  filled 
Out  of  Oblivion’s  well,  a healing  draught ! 
The  candles  have  burned  low  ; it  must  be  late. 
Where  can  Victorian  be?  Like  Fray  Carrillo. 
The  only  place  in  which  one  cannot  find  him 
Is  his  own  cell.  Here ’s  his  guitar,  that  seldom 
Feels  the  caresses  of  its  master’s  hand. 

Open  thy  silent  lips,  sweet  instrument ! 

And  make  dull  midnight  merry  with  a song. 
( He  plays  and  sings.) 

Padre  Francisco  ! 

Padre  Francisco  ! 

What  do  you  want  of  Padre  Francisco? 

Here  is  a pretty  young  maiden 
Who  wants  to  confess  her  sins  ! 

Open  the  door  and  let  her  come  in, 

I will  shrive  her  from  every  sin. 


( Enter  Victorian.) 

Viet.  Padre  Hypolito  ! Padre  Ilypolito! 
Hyp.  What  do  you  want  of  Padre  Hypolito? 
Viet.  Come,  shrive  me  straight ; for,  if  love 
be  a sin, 

I am  the  greatest  sinner  that  doth  live. 

I will  confess  the  sweetest  of  all  crimes, 

A maiden  wooed  and  won. 

Hyp.  The  same  old  tale 

Of  the  old  woman  in  the  chimney-corner, 
Who,  while  the  pot  boils,  says,  “ Come  here 
my  child  ; 

I 'll  tell  thee  a story  of  my  wedding-day,” 
Viet.  Nay,  listen,  for  my  heart  is  full ; so 
full 

That  I must  speak. 

Hyp.  Alas  ! that  heart  of  thine 

Is  like  a scene  in  the  old  play ; the  curtain 
Rises  to  solemn  music,  and  lo ! enter 
The  eleven  thousand  virgins  of  Cologne  ! 

Viet.  Nay,  like  the  Sibyl’s  volumes,  thou 
shouldst  say  ; 

Those  that  remained,  after  the  six  were  burned. 
Being  held  more  precious  than  the  nine  to- 
gether. 

But  listen  to  my  tale.  Dost  thou  remember 
The  Gypsy  girl  we  saw  at  Cordova 
Dance  the  Romalis  in  the  market-place  ? 

Hyp.  Thou  meanest  Preciosa. 

Viet.  Ay,  the  same. 

Thou  knowest  how  her  image  haunted  me 
Long  after  we  returned  to  Alcala. 

She ’s  in  Madrid. 

Hyp.  I know  it. 

Viet.  And  I ’m  in  love. 

Hyp.  And  therefore  in  Madrid  when  thou 
shouldst  be 
In  Alcala. 

Viet.  Oh  pardon  me,  my  friend. 

If  I so  long  have  kept  this  secret  from  thee ; 
But  silence  is  the  charm  that  guards  such 
treasures, 

And,  if  a word  be  spoken  ere  the  time, 

They  sink  again,  they  were  not  meant  for  us. 

Hyp.  Alas  ! alas  ! I see  thou  art  in  love. 
Love  keeps  the  cold  out  better  than  a cloak. 
It  serves  for  food  and  raiment.  Give  a Span- 
iard 

His  mass,  his  olla,  and  his  Dofia  Luisa  — 


86 


THE  POETIC  A /,  WORKS  OF 


Thou  knowest  the  proverb.  But  pray  tell 
me,  lover, 

How  speeds  thy  wooing  ? Is  the  maiden  coy  ? 
Write  her  a song,  beginning  with  an  Ave  ; 
Sing  as  the  monk  sang  to  the  Virgin  Mary, 
Ave ! cujus  calcern  dare 
Nec  centenni  commendare 
Sciret  Seraph  studio  ! 

Viet.  Pray,  do  not  jest ! This  is  no  time 
for  it  ! 

I am  in  earnest ! 

Hyp.  Seriously  enamored  ? 

What,  ho  ! The  Primus  of  great  Alcala 
Enamored  of  a Gypsy?  Tell  me  frankly, 
How  meanest  thou  ? 

Viet.  I mean  it  honestly. 

Hyp.  Surely  thou  wilt  not  marry  her  ! 

Viet.  Why  not  ? 

Hyp.  She  was  betrothed  to  one  Bartolome, 
If  I remember  rightly,  a young  Gypsy 
Who  danced  with  her  at  Cordova. 

Viet.  They  quan-elled, 

And  so  the  matter  ended. 

Hyp.  But  in  truth 

Thou  wilt  not  marry  her. 

Viet.  In  truth  I will. 

The  angels  sang  in  heaven  when  she  was  born  ! 
She  is  a precious  jewel  I have  found 
Among  the  filth  and  rubbish  of  the  world. 

I 'll  stoop  for  it ; but  when  I wear  it  here, 
Set  on  my  forehead  like  the  morning  star, 
The  world  may  wonder,  but  it  will  not  laugh. 
Hyp.  If  thou  wear’st  nothing  else  upon  thy 
forehead, 

’T  will  be  indeed  a wonder. 

Viet.  Out  upon  thee 

With  thy  unseasonable  jests  ! Pray  tell  me, 
Is  there  no  virtue  in  the  world  ? 

Hyp.  Not  much. 

What,  think’st  thou,  is  she  doing  at  this 
moment ; 

Now,  while  we  speak  of  her? 

Viet.  She  lies  asleep, 

And  from  her  parted  lips  her  gentle  breath 
Comes  like  the  fragrance  from  the  lips  of 
flowers. 

Her  tender  limbs  are  still,  and  on  her  breast 
The  cross  she  prayed  to,  ere  she  fell  asleep, 
Rises  and  falls  with  the  soft  tide  of  dreams, 
Like  a light  barge  safe  moored. 


Hyp.  Which  means,  in  prose, 

She  ’s  sleeping  with  her  mouth  a little  open  ! 
Viet.  Oh,  would  I had  the  old  magician’s 
glass 

To  see  her  as  she  lies  in  childlike  sleep  ! 
Hyp.  And  wouldst  thou  venture  ? 

Viet.  Ay,  indeed  I would  ! 

Hyp.  Thou  art  courageous.  Hast  thou  e’er 
reflected 

How  much  lies  hidden  in  that  one  word,  now? 

Viet.  Yes  ; all  the  awful  mystery  of  Life ! 
I oft  have  thought,  my  dear  Hypolito, 

That  could  we,  by  some  spell  of  magic,  change 
The  world  and  its  inhabitants  to  stone, 

In  the  same  attitudes  they  now  are  in, 

What  fearful  glances  downward  might  we  cast 
Into  the  hollow  chasms  of  human  life  ! 

What  groups  should  we  behold  about  the 
death-bed, 

Putting  to  shame  the  group  of  Niobe  ! 

What  joyful  welcomes,  and  what  sad  farewells! 
W1  lat  stony  tears  in  those  congealed  eyes  ! 
What  visible  joy  or  anguish  in  those  cheeks ! 
What  bridal  pomps,  and  what  funereal  shows  ! 
What  foes,  like  gladiators,  fierce  and  strug- 
gling ! 

What  lovers  with  their  marble  lips  together ! 

Hyp.  Ay,  there  it  is  ! and,  if  I were  in  love, 
That  is  the  very  point  I most  should  dread. 
This  magic  glass,  these  magic  spells  of  thine, 
Might  tell  a tale  were  better  left  untold. 

For  instance,  they  might  show  us  thy  fair 
cousin, 

The  Lady  Violante,  bathed  in  tears 
Of  love  and  anger,  like  the  maid  of  Colchis, 
Whom  thou,  another  faithless  Argonaut, 
Having  won  that  golden  fleece,  a woman’s  love, 
Desertest  for  this  Glauce. 

Viet,.  Hold  thy  peace  ! 

She  cares  not  for  me.  She  may  wed  another, 
Or  go  into  a convent,  and,  thus  dying, 

Marry  Achilles  in  the  Elysian  Fields. 

Hyp.  (rising').  And  so,  good  night!  Good 
morning,  I should  say. 

( Clock  strikes  three.) 

Hark  ! how  the  loud  and  ponderous  mace  of 
Time 

Knocks  at  the  golden  portals  of  the  day  ! 

And  so,  once  more,  good  night ! We  "11  speak 
more  largely 


HE  NR  Y IV  A DS  IVOR  77/  L ON  G FELL  0 IV. 


87 


Of  Preciosa  when  we  meet  again. 

Get  thee  to  bed,  and  the  magician,  Sleep, 
Shall  show  her  to  thee,  in  his  magic  glass, 

In  all  her  loveliness.  Good  night!  [Exit. 

Viet.  Good  night ! 

But  not  to  bed ; for  I must  read  awhile. 


( Throws  himself  into  the  arm-chair  tuhich  IIypolito  has 
left , and  lays  a large  hook  open  upon  his  knees.) 

Must  read,  or  sit  in  revery  and  watch 
The  changing;  color  of  the  waves  that  break 
Upon  the  idle  sea-sliore  of  the  mind  ! 

Visions  of  Fame  ! that  once  did  visit  me, 
Making  night  glorious  with  your  smile,  where 
are  ye  ? 

Oh,  who  shall  give  me,  now  that  ye  are  gone, 
Juices  of  those  immortal  plants  that  bloom 
Upon  Olympus,  making  us  immortal  ? 

Or  teach  me  where  that  wondrous  mandrake 
grows 

Whose  magic  root,  torn  from  the  earth  with 
groans, 

At  midnight  hour,  can  scare  the  fiends  away, 
And  make  the  mind  prolific  in  its  fancies  ? 

I have  the  wish,  but  want  the  will,  to  act  ! 
Souls  of  great  men  departed  ! Ye  whose  words 
Have  come  to  light  from  the  swift  river  of 
Time, 

Like  Roman  swords  found  in  the  Tagus’  bed, 
Where  is  the  strength  to  wield  the  arms  ye 
bore  ? 


From  the  barred  visor  of  Antiquity 
Reflected  shines  the  eternal  light  of  Truth, 
As  from  a mirror  ! All  the  means  of  action  — 
The  shapeless  masses,  the  materials  — 

Lie  everywhere  about  us.  What  we  need 
Is  the  celestial  fire  to  change  the  flint 
Into  transparent  crystal,  bright  and  clear. 
That  fire  is  genius  ! The  rude  peasant  sits 
At  evening  in  his  smoky  cot,  and  draws 
With  charcoal  uncouth  figures  on  the  wall. 
The  son  of  genius  comes,  foot-sore  with  travel, 
And  begs  a shelter  from  the  inclement  night. 
He  takes  the  charcoal  from  the  peasant’s  hand, 
And,  by  the  magic  of  his  touch  at  once 
Transfigured,  all  its  hidden  virtues  shine, 
And,  in  the  eyes  of  the  astonished  clown, 

It  gleams  a diamond  ! Even  thus  transformed, 
Rude  popular  traditions  and  old  tales 
Shine  as  immortal  poems,  at  the  touch 
Of  some  poor,  houseless,  homeless,  wandering 
bard, 

Who  had  but  a night’s  lodging  for  his  pains. 
But  there  are  brighter  dreams  than  those  of 
Fame, 

Which  are  the  dreams  of  Love  ! Out  of  the 
heart 

Rises  the  bright  ideal  of  these  dreams, 

As  from  some  woodland  fount  a spirit  rises 
And  sinks  again  into  its  silent  deeps, 

Ere  the  enamored  knight  can  touch  her  robe  ! 
’T  is  this  ideal  that  the  soul  of  man, 

Like  the  enamored  knight  beside  the  foun- 
tain, 

Waits  for  upon  the  margin  of  Life’s  stream  ; 
Waits  to  behold  her  rise  from  the  dark  waters, 
Clad  in  a mortal  shape  ! Alas  ! how  many 
Must  wait  in  vain ! The  stream  flows  ever- 
more, 

But  from  its  silent  deeps  no  spirit  rises ! 

Yet  I,  born  under  a propitious  star, 

Have  found  the  bright  ideal  of  my  dreams. 
Yes  ! she  is  ever  with  me.  I can  feel, 

Here,  as  I sit  at  midnight  and  alone, 

Her  gentle  breathing ! on  my  breast  can  feel 
The  pressure  of  her  head  ! God’s  benison 
Rest  ever  on  it ! Close  those  beauteous  eyes, 
Sweet  Sleep  ! and  all  the  flowers  that  bloom 
at  night 

With  balmy  lips  breathe  in  her  ears  my  name  ’ 
( Gradually  sinks  asleep.) 


88 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I.  — Preciosa’s  chamber.  Morning. 
Preciosa  and  Angelica. 

P>  •ec.  Why  will  you  go  so  soon  ? Stay  yet 
awhile. 

The  poor  too  often  turn  away  unheard 
From  hearts  that  shut  against  them  with  a 
sound 

That  will  be  heard  in  heaven.  Pray,  tell  me 
more 

Of  your  adversities.  Keep  nothing  from  me. 
What  is  your  landlord’s  name? 

Ang.  The  Count  of  Lara. 

Free.  The  Count  of  Lara  ? Oh,  beware  that 
man  ! 

Mistrust  his  pity,  — hold  no  parley  with  him  ! 
And  rather  die  an  outcast  in  the  streets 
Than  touch  his  gold. 

Ang.  You  know  him,  then  ! 

Prec.  As  much 

As  any  woman  may,  and  yet  be  pure. 


As  you  would  keep  your  name  without  a 
blemish, 

Beware  of  him  ! 

Ang.  Alas  ! what  can  I do  ? 

I cannot  choose  my  friends.  Each  word  of 
kindness, 

Come  whence  it  may,  is  welcome  to  the  poor. 

Prec.  Make  me  your  friend.  A girl  so  young 
and  fair 

Should  have  no  friends  but  those  of  her  own 
sex. 

What  is  your  name  ? 

Ang.  Angelica. 

Prec.  That  name 

Was  given  you,  that  you  might  be  an  angel 

To  her  who  bore  you ! When  your  infant 
smile 

Made  her  home  Paradise,  you  were  her  angel. 

Oh,  be  an  angel  still ! She  needs  that  smile. 

So  long  as  you  are  innocent,  fear  nothing. 

No  one  can  harm  you ! I am  a poor  girl, 

Whom  chance  has  taken  from  the  public 
streets. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


89 


I have  no  other  shield  than  mine  own  virtue. 
That  is  the  charm  which  has  protected  me ! 
Amid  a thousand  perils,  I have  worn  it 
Here  on  my  heart ! It  is  my  guardian  angel. 
Ang.  (rising').  I thank  you  for  this  counsel, 
dearest  lady. 

Free.  Thank  me  by  following  it. 

Ang.  Indeed  I will. 

Free.  Pray,  do  not  go.  I have  much  more 
to  say. 

Ang.  My  mother  is  alone.  I dare  not  leave 
her. 

Free.  Some  other  time,  then,  when  we  meet 
again. 

You  must  not  go  away  with  words  alone. 

( Gices  her  a purse.) 

Take  this.  Would  it  were  more. 

Ang.  I thank  you,  lady. 

Free.  No  thanks.  To-morrow  come  to  me 
again. 

I dance  to-night,  — perhaps  for  the  last  time. 
But  what  I gain,  I promise  shall  be  yours, 

If  that  can  save  you  from  the  Count  of  Lara. 
Ang.  Oh,  my  dear  lady  ! how  shall  I be 
grateful 

F or  so  much  kindness  ? 

Free.  I deserve  no  thanks, 

Thank  Heaven,  not  me. 

Ang.  Both  Heaven  and  you. 

Free.  Farewell. 

Remember  that  you  come  again  to-morrow. 
Ang.  I will.  And  may  the  Blessed  Virgin 
guard  you, 

And  all  good  angels.  [Exit. 

Free.  May  they  guard  thee  too, 

And  all  the  poor ; for  they  have  need  of  an- 
gels. 

Now  bring  me,  dear  Dolores,  my  basquina, 
My  richest  maja  dress,  — my  dancing  dress, 
And  my  most  precious  jewels ! Make  me 
look 

Fairer  than  night  e’er  saw  me  ! I ’ye  a prize 
To  win  this  day,  worthy  of  Preciosa  ! 

(Enter  Beltran  Cruzado.) 

Cruz.  Ave  Maria ! 

Pree.  O God  ! my  evil  genius ! 

What  seekest  thou  here  to-day  ? 

Cruz.  Thyself,  — my  child. 

Pree.  What  is  thy  will  with  me  ? 

Cruz.  Gold  ! gold  ! 


Free.  I gave  thee  yesterday  ; I have  no 
more. 

Cruz.  The  gold  of  the  Busne,  — give  me 
his  gold ! 

Free.  I gave  the  last  in  charity  to-day. 
Cruz.  That  is  a foolish  lie. 

Pree.  It  is  the  truth. 

Cruz.  Curses  upon  thee  ! Thou  art  not  my 
child ! 

Hast  thou  given  gold  away,  and  not  to  me? 
Not  to  thy  father?  To  whom,  then? 

Pree.  To  one 

Who  needs  it  more. 

Cruz.  No  one  can  need  it  more. 

Pree.  Thou  art  not  poor. 

Cruz.  What,  I,  who  lurk  about 

In  dismal  suburbs  and  unwholesome  lanes ; 

I,  who  am  housed  worse  than  the  galley  slave  ; 
I,  who  am  fed  worse  than  the  kennelled  hound  ; 
I,  who  am  clothed  in  rags,  — Beltran  Cru- 
zado, — 

Not  poor ! 

Pree.  Thou  hast  a stout  heart  and  strong 
hands. 

Thou  canst  supply  thy  wants ; what  wouldst 
thou  more  ? 

Cruz.  The  gold  of  the  Busne  ! give  me  his 
gold ! 

Pree.  Beltran  Cruzado ! hear  me  once  for 
all. 

I speak  the  truth.  So  long  as  I had  gold, 

I gave  it  to  thee  freely,  at  all  times, 

Never  denied  thee ; never  had  a wish 
But  to  fulfil  thine  own.  Now  go  in  peace  ! 
Be  merciful,  be  patient,  and  erelong 
Thou  shalt  have  more. 

Cruz.  And  if  I have  it  not, 

Thou  shaft  no  longer  dwell  here  in  rich  cham- 
bers, 

Wear  silken  dresses,  feed  on  dainty  food, 

And  live  in  idleness  ; but  go  with  me, 

Dance  the  Romalis  in  the  public  streets, 

And  wander  wild  again  o’er  field  and  fell  ; 
For  here  we  stay  not  long. 

Pree.  What ! march  again  ? 

Cruz.  Ay,  with  all  speed.  I hate  the 
crowded  town  ! 

I cannot  breathe  shut  up  within  its  gates  1 
Air,  — I want  air,  and  sunshine,  and  blue  sky, 
The  feeling  of  the  breeze  upon  my  face, 


12 


90 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


The  feeling  of  the  turf  beneath  my  feet, 

And  no  walls  but  the  far-off  mountain-tops. 
Then  I am  free  and  strong,  — once  more  my- 
self, 

Beltran  Cruzado,  Count  of  the  Calcs ! 

Free.  God  speed  thee  on  thy  march  ! — I 
cannot  go. 

Cruz.  Remember  who  I am,  and  who  thou 
art ! 

Be  silent  and  obey ! Yet  one  thing  more. 
Bartolome  Roman  — 

Free,  (with  emotion).  Oh,  I beseech  thee! 
If  my  obedience  and  blameless  life, 

If  my  humility  and  meek  submission 
In  all  things  hitherto,  can  move  in  thee 
One  feeling  of  compassion  ; if  thou  art 
Indeed  my  father,  and  canst  trace  in  me 
One  look  of  her  who  bore  me,  or  one  tone 
That  doth  remind  thee  of  her,  let  it  plead 
In  my  behalf,  who  am  a feeble  girl, 

Too  feeble  to  resist,  and  do  not  force  me 
To  wed  that  man ! I am  afraid  of  him ! 

I do  not  love  him  ! On  my  knees  I beg  thee 
To  use  no  violence,  nor  do  in  haste 
What  cannot  be  undone  ! 

Cruz.  O child,  child,  child ! 

Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  secret,  as  a bird 
Betrays  her  nest,  by  striving  to  conceal  it. 

I will  not  leave  thee  here  in  the  great  city 
To  be  a grandee’s  mistress.  Make  thee  ready 
To  go  with  us ; and  until  then  remember 
A watchful  eye  is  on  thee.  [Exit. 

Prec.  Woe  is  me  ! 

I have  a strange  misgiving  in  my  heart ! 

But  that  one  deed  of  charity  I ‘11  do, 

Befall  what  may ; they  cannot  take  that  from 
me. 

Scene  II. — .4  room  in  the  Archbishop’s  Palace.  The 
Archbishop  and  a Cardinal  seated. 

Arch.  Knowing  how  near  it  touched  the 
public  morals, 

And  that  our  age  is  grown  corrupt  and  rotten 
By  such  excesses,  we  have  sent  to  Rome, 
Beseeching  that  his  Holiness  would  aid 
In  curing  the  gross  surfeit  of  the  time, 

By  seasonable  stop  put  here  in  Spain 
To  hull-fights  and  lewd  dances  on  the  stage. 
All  this  you  know. 


Card.  Know  and  approve. 

Arch.  And  further, 

That,  by  a mandate  from  his  Holiness, 

The  first  have  been  suppressed. 

Card.  I trust  forever. 

It  was  a cruel  sport. 

Arch.  A barbarous  pastime. 

Disgraceful  to  the  land  that  calls  itself 
Most  Catholic  and  Christian. 

Card.  Yet  the  people 

Murmur  at  this  ; and,  if  the  public  dances 
Should  be  condemned  upon  too  slight  occasion, 
Worse  ills  might  follow  than  the  ills  we  cure. 
As  Panem  et  Circenses  was  the  cry 
Among  the  Roman  populace  of  old, 

So  Pan  y Toros  is  the  cry  in  Spain. 

Hence  I would  act  advisedly  herein  ; 

And  therefore  have  induced  your  Grace  to  see 
These  national  dances,  ere  we  interdict  them. 
( Enter  a Servant.) 

Serv.  The  dancing-girl,  and  with  her  the 
musicians 

Your  Grace  was  pleased  to  order,  wait  without. 
Arch.  Bid  them  come  in.  Now  shall  your 
eyes  behold 

In  what  angelic,  yet  voluptuous  shape 
The  Devil  came  to  tempt  Saint  Anthony. 

( Enter  Preciosa,  with  a mantle  thrown  over  her  head. 
She  advances  slowly,  in  modest,  half-timkl  attitude.') 

Card,  (aside).  Oh,  what  a fair  and  minister- 
ing angel 

Was  lost  to  heaven  when  this  sweet  woman 
fell! 

Prec.  (kneeling  before  the  Archbishop).  I 
have  obeyed  the  order  of  your  Grace. 
If  I intrude  upon  your  better  hours, 

I proffer  this  excuse,  and  here  beseech 
Your  holy  benediction. 

Arch.  May  God  bless  thee, 

And  lead  thee  to  a better  life.  Arise. 

Card,  (aside).  Her  acts  are  modest,  and  her 
words  discreet ! 

I did  not  look  for  this  ! Come  hither,  child. 
Is  thy  name  Preciosa  ? 

Prec.  Thus  I am  called. 

Card.  That  is  a Gypsy  name.  Who  is  thy 
father  ? 

Prec.  Beltran  Cruzado,  Count  of  the  Calcs. 
Arch.  I have  a dim  remembrance  of  that 
man  ; 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


91 


lie  was  a bold  and  reckless  character, 

A sun-burnt  Ishmael ! 

Card.  Dost  thou  remember 

Thy  earlier  days  ? 

Free.  Yes  ; by  the  Darro’s  side 

My  childhood  passed.  I can  remember  still 
The  river,  and  the  mountains  capped  with  snow; 
The  villages,  Avliere,  yet  a little  child, 

I told  the  traveller’s  fortune  in  the  street ; 
The  smuggler’s  horse,  the  brigand  and  the 
shepherd ; 

The  march  across  the  moor  ; the  halt  at  noon ; 
The  red  fire  of  the  evening  camp,  that  lighted 
The  forest  where  we  slept ; and,  further  back, 


As  in  a dream  or  in  some  former  life, 
Gardens  and  palace  walls. 

Arch.  ’T  is  the  Alhambra, 

Under  whose  towers  the  Gypsy  camp  was 
pitched. 

But  the  time  wears ; and  we  would  see  thee 
dance. 

Free.  Your  Grace  shall  be  obeyed. 

( She  lays  aside  lier  mantilla.  The  music  of  the  cachucha 
is  played,  and  the  dance  begins.  The  Archbishop  and 
the  Cardinal  look  on  with  gravity  and  an  occasional 
frown ; then  make  signs  to  each  other  ; and,  as  the  dance 
continues,  become  more  and  more  pleased  and  excited; 
and  at  length  rise  from  their  seats,  throw  their  caps  in  the 
air , and  applaud  vehemently  as  the  scene  closes .) 


92 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Scene  III. — The  Prado.  A long  avenue  of  trees  lead- 
ing to  the  gate  of  Atocha.  On  the  right  the  dome  and 
spires  of  a convent.  A fountain.  Evening , Don 
Carlos  and  Hypolito  meeting. 

Don  C.  Hold  ! good  evening,  Don  Hypolito. 
Hyp.  And  a good  evening  to  my  friend, 
Don  Carlos. 

Some  lucky  star  has  led  my  steps  this  way. 

1 was  in  search  of  you. 

Don  C.  Command  me  always. 

Hyp.  Do  you  remember,  in  Quevedo’s 
Dreams, 

The  miser,  who,  upon  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
Asks  if  his  money-bags  would  rise? 

Don  C.  I do  ; 

But  what  of  that  ? 

Hyp.  I am  that  wretched  man. 

Don  C.  You  mean  to  tell  me  yours  have 
risen  empty  ? 

Hyp.  And  amen  ! said  my  Cid  Campea- 
dor. 

Don  C.  Pray,  how  much  need  you  ? 

Hyp.  Some  half-dozen  ounces, 

Which,  with  due  interest  — 

Don  C.  ( giving  his  purse).  What,  am  I a 
Jew 

To  put  my  moneys  out  at  usury  ? 

Here  is  my  purse. 

Hyp.  Thank  you.  A pretty  purse. 

Made  by  the  hand  of  some  fair  Madrilena ; 
Perhaps  a keepsake. 

Don  C.  No,  ?t  is  at  your  service. 

Hyp.  Thank  you  again.  Lie  there,  good 
Chrysostom, 

And  with  thy  golden  mouth  remind  me  often, 
I am  the  debtor  of  my  friend. 

Don  C.  But  tell  me, 

Come  you  to-day  from  Alcala  ? 

Hyp.  This  moment. 

Don  C.  And  pray,  how  fares  the  brave  Vic- 
torian ? 

Hyp.  Indifferent  well ; that  is  to  say,  not 

well. 

A damsel  has  ensnared  him  with  the  glances 
Of  her  dark,  roving  eyes,  as  herdsmen  catch 
A steer  of  Andalusia  with  a lazo. 

He  is  in  love. 

Don  C.  And  is  it  faring  ill 

To  be  in  love  ? 

Hyp.  In  his  case  very  ill. 


Don  C.  Why  so  ? 

Hyp.  For  many  reasons.  First  and  fore- 
most, 

Because  he  is  in  love  with  an  ideal ; 

A creature  of  his  own  imagination ; 

A child  of  air  ; an  echo  of  his  heart ; 

And,  like  a lily  on  a river  floating, 

She  floats  upon  the  river  of  his  thoughts  ! 
Don  C.  A common  thing  with  poets.  But 
who  is 

This  floating  lily?  For,  in  fine,  some  woman, 
Some  living  woman,  — not  a mere  ideal,  — 
Must  wear  the  outward  semblance  of  his 
thought. 

Who  is  it  ? Tell  me. 

Hyp.  Well,  it  is  a woman  ! 

But,  look  you,  from  the  coffer  of  his  heart 
He  brings  forth  precious  jewels  to  adorn  her, 
As  pious  priests  adorn  some  favorite  saint 
With  gems  and  gold,  until  at  length  she 
gleams 

One  blaze  of  glory.  Without  these,  you  know, 
And  the  priest’s  benediction,  ’t  is  a doll. 

Don  C.  W ell,  well ! who  is  this  doll  ? 

Hyp.  Why,  who  do  you  think  ? 

Don  C.  His  cousin  Violante. 

Hyp.  Guess  again. 

To  ease  his  laboring  heart,  in  the  last  storm 
He  threw  her  overboard,  with  all  her  ingots. 
Don  C.  I cannot  guess ; so  tell  me  who  it 
is. 

Hyp.  Not  I. 

Don  C.  Why  not  ? 

Hyp.  (^mysteriously).  Why?  Because  Mari 
F ranca 

Was  married  four  leagues  out  of  Salamanca ! 
Don  C.  Jesting  aside,  who  is  it  ? 

Hyp.  Preciosa. 

Don  C.  Impossible ! The  Count  of  Lara 
tells  me 

She  is  not  virtuous. 

Hyp.  Did  I say  she  was  ? 

The  Roman  Emperor  Claudius  had  a wife 
Whose  name  was  Messalina,  as  I think  ; 
Valeria  Messalina  was  her  name. 

But  hist ! I see  him  yonder  through  the  trees, 
Walking  as  in  a dream. 

Don  C.  He  comes  this  way. 

Hyp.  It  has  been  truly  said  by  some  wise 
man, 


HENR  T WADS  WOR  TH  L ON G FELL  ()  W 


93 


That  money,  grief,  and  love  cannot  he  hidden. 

( Enter  Victorian  in  front.) 

Viet.  Where'er  thy  step  has  passed  is  holy 
ground ! 

These  groves  are  sacred  ! I behold  thee  walk- 
ing 

Under  these  shadowy  trees,  where  we  have 
walked 

At  evening,  and  I feel  thy  presence  now  ; 

Feel  that  the  place  has  taken  a charm  from 
thee, 

And  is  forever  hallowed. 

Hyp.  Mark  him  well ! 

See  how  he  strides  away  with  lordly  air, 

Like  that  odd  guest  of  stone,  that  grim  Com- 
mander 

Who  comes  to  sup  with  Juan  in  the  play. 

Don  C.  What  ho  ! Victorian  ! 

Hyp.  Wilt  thou  sup  with  us? 


Viet.  Hold!  amigos!  Faith,  I did  not  see 
you. 

How  fares  Don  Carlos  ? 

Don  C.  At  your  service  ever. 

Viet.  How  is  that  young  and  green-eyed 
Gaditana 

That  you  both  wot  of  ? 

Don  C.  Ay,  soft,  emerald  eyes ! 

She  has  gone  back  to  Cadiz. 


Hyp.  But,  speaking  of  green  eyes, 

Are  thine  green  ? 

Viet.  Not  a whit.  Why  so? 

Hyp.  I think 

The  slightest  shade  of  green  would  be  becom- 


1 h'"\ -u' 


mg, 


Hyp.  Ay  de  mf ! 

Viet.  You  are  much  to  blame  for  letting 
her  go  back. 

A pretty  girl ; and  in  her  tender  eyes 
Just  that  soft  shade  of  green  we  sometimes 
see 

In  evening  skies. 


For  thou  art  jealous. 

Yict.  No,  I am  not  jealous. 

Hyp.  Thou  shouldst  be. 

Viet.  Why? 

Hyp.  Because  thou  art  in  love. 

And  they  who  are  in  love  are  always  jealous. 
Therefore  thou  shouldst  be. 


94 


THE  POETICAL 


WORKS  OF 


Viet.  Marry,  is  that  all  ? 

Farewell ; I am  in  haste.  Farewell,  Don 
Carlos. 

Thou  sayest  I should  be  jealous  ? 

Hyp.  Ay,  in  truth 

I fear  there  is  reason.  Be  upon  thy  guard. 

I hear  it  whispered  that  the  Count  of  Lara 
Lays  siege  to  the  same  citadel. 

Viet.  Indeed ! 

Then  he  will  have  his  labor  for  his  pains. 
Hyp.  He  does  not  think  so,  and  Don  Carlos 
tells  me 

He  boasts  of  his  success. 

Viet.  How ’s  this,  Don  Carlos  ? 

Don  C.  Some  hints  of  it  I heard  from  his 
own  lips. 

He  spoke  but  lightly  of  the  lady’s  virtue, 

As  a gay  man  might  speak. 

Viet.  Death  and  damnation  ! 

I ‘11  cut  his  lying  tongue  out  of  his  mouth, 
And  throw  it  to  my  dog ! But,  no,  no,  no  ! 
This  cannot  be.  You  jest,  indeed  you  jest. 
Trifle  with  me  no  more.  For  otherwise 
We  are  no  longer  friends.  And  so,  farewell ! 

[Exit. 

Hyp.  Now  what  a coil  is  here  ! The  Aveng- 
ing Child 

Hunting  the  traitor  Quadros  to  his  death, 
And  the  great  Moor  Calaynos,  when  he  rode 
To  Paris  for  the  ears  of  Oliver, 

Were  nothing  to  him!  O hot-headed  youth! 
But  come  ; we  will  not  follow.  Let  us  join 
The  crowd  that  pours  into  the  Prado.  There 
We  shall  find  merrier  company  ; I see 
The  Marialonzos  and  the  Almavivas, 

And  fifty  fans,  that  beckon  me  already. 

[Exeunt. 


Scene  IV. — Prf.ciosa’s  chamber.  She  is  sitting,  with 
a book  in  her  hand,  near  a table,  on  which  are  flowers. 
A bird  singing  in  its  cage.  The  Count  of  Lara  enters 
behind  unperceived. 

Prec.  (reads'). 

All  are  sleeping,  weary  heart ! 

Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art ! 

Heigho  ! I wish  Victorian  were  here. 

I know  not  what  it  is  makes  me  so  restless  ! 


( The  bird  sings.) 

Thou  little  prisoner  with  thy  motley  coat, 
That  from  thy  vaulted,  wiry  dungeon  singest. 
Like  thee  I am  a captive,  and,  like  thee, 

I have  a gentle  jailer.  Lack-a-day  ! 

All  are  sleeping,  weary  heart ! 

Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art ! 

All  this  throbbing,  all  this  aching, 

Evermore  shall  keep  thee  waking, 

For  a heart  in  sorrow  breaking 
Thinketh  ever  of  its  smart ! 

Thou  speakest  truly,  poet ! and  methinks 
More  hearts  are  breaking  in  this  world  of  ours 
Than  one  would  say.  In  distant  villages 
And  solitudes  remote,  where  winds  have  wafted 
The  barbed  seeds  of  love,  or  birds  of  passage 
Scattered  them  in  their  flight,  do  they  take 
root, 

And  grow  in  silence,  and  in  silence  pei’ish. 
Who  hears  the  falling  of  the  forest  leaf  ? 

Or  who  takes  note  of  every  flower  that  dies  ? 
Heigho ! I wish  Victorian  would  come. 
Dolores  ! 

( Turns  to  lay  down  her  book,  and  perceives  the  Count.) 

Ha! 

Lara.  Senora,  pardon  me  ! 

Prec.  How ’s  this  ? Dolores  ! 

Lara.  Pardon  me  — 

Prec.  Dolores ! 

Ljara.  Be  not  alarmed  ; I found  no  one  in 
waiting. 

If  I have  been  too  bold  — 

Prec.  (turning  her  hack  upon  him).  You  are 
too  bold  ! 

Retire  ! retire,  and  leave  me  ! 

Lara.  My  dear  lady, 

First  hear  me  ! I beseech  you,  let  me  speak  ! 
’T  is  for  your  good  I come. 

Prec.  (turning  toward  him  with  indigna- 
tion). Begone  ! begone ! 

You  are  the  Count  of  Lara,  but  your  deeds 
Would  make  the  statues  of  your  ancestors 
Blush  on  their  tombs  ! Is  it  Castilian  honor, 
Is  it  Castilian  pride,  to  steal  in  here 
Upon  a friendless  girl,  to  do  her  wrong  ? 

Oh  shame!  shame!  shame!  that  you,  a noble- 
man, 

Should  be  so  little  noble  in  your  thoughts 
As  to  send  jewels  here  to  win  my  love, 

And  think  to  buy  my  honor  with  your  gold  ! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


95 


I have  no  words  to  tell  you  how  I scorn  you  ! 
Begone  ! The  sight  of  you  is  hateful  to  me  ! 
Begone,  I say  ! 

Lara.  Be  calm  ; I will  not  harm  you. 
Prec.  Because  you  dare  not. 

Lara.  I dare  anything  ! 

Therefore  beware  ! You  are  deceived  in  me. 
In  this  false  world,  we  do  not  always  know 
Who  are  our  friends  and  who  our  enemies. 
We  all  have  enemies,  and  all  need  friends. 
Even  you,  fair  Preciosa,  here  at  court 
Have  foes,  who  seek  to  wrong  you. 

Prec.  If  to  this 

I owe  the  honor  of  the  present  visit, 


You  might  have  spared  the  coming.  Having 
spoken, 

Once  more  I beg  you,  leave  me  to  myself. 
Lara.  I thought  it  but  a friendly  part  to 
tell  you 

What  strange  reports  are  current  here  in  town. 
For  my  own  self,  I do  not  credit  them  ; 

But  there  are  many  who,  not  knowing  you, 
Will  lend  a readier  ear. 

Prec.  There  was  no  need 

That  you  should  take  upon  yourself  the  duty 
Of  telling  me  these  tales. 

Lara.  Malicious  tongues 

Are  ever  busy  with  your  name. 


Prec.  Alas ! 

I ’ve  no  protectors.  I am  a poor  girl, 
Exposed  to  insults  and  unfeeling  jest. 

They  wound  me,  yet  I cannot  shield  myself. 
I give  no  cause  for  these  reports.  I live 
Retired ; am  visited  by  none. 

Lara.  By  none  ? 

Oh,  then,  indeed,  you  are  much  wronged  ! 
Prec.  How  mean  you  ? 

Lara.  Nay,  nay ; I will  not  wound  your 
gentle  soul 

By  the  report  of  idle  tales. 


Prec.  Speak  out ! 

What  are  these  idle  tales  ? You  need  not 
spare  me. 

Lara.  I will  deal  frankly  with  you.  Par- 
don me  ; 

This  window,  as  I think,  looks  toward  the 
street, 

And  this  into  the  Prado,  does  it  not  ? 

In  yon  high  house,  beyond  the  garden  wall,  — 
You  see  the  roof  there  just  above  the  trees,  — 
There  lives  a friend,  who  told  me  yesterday, 
That  on  a certain  night,  — be  not  offended 


96 


TIIE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


If  I too  plainly  speak,  — he  saw  a man 
Climb  to  your  chamber  window.  You  are 
silent ! 

I would  not  blame  you,  being  young  and 
fair  — 

( He  tries  to  embrace  her.  She  starts  back,  and  draws  a 
dagger  from  her  bosom.) 

Prec.  Beware  ! beware  ! I am  a Gypsy  girl ! 
Lay  not  your  hand  upon  me.  One  step  nearer 
And  I will  strike ! 

Lara.  Pray  you,  put  up  that  dagger. 

Fear  not. 

Pi  •ec.  I do  not  fear.  I have  a heart 
In  whose  strength  I can  trust. 

Lara.  Listen  to  me. 

I come  here  as  your  friend,  — I am  your 
friend,  — 

And  by  a single  word  can  put  a stop 
To  all  those  idle  tales,  and  make  your  name 
Spotless  as  lilies  are.  Here  on  my  knees, 
Fair  Preciosa ! on  my  knees  I swear, 

I love  you  even  to  madness,  and  that  love 
Has  driven  me  to  break  the  rules  of  custom, 
And  force  myself  unasked  into  your  presence. 

(Victorian  enters  behind.) 

Prec.  Rise,  Count  of  Lara ! That  is  not 
the  place 

For  such  as  you  are.  It  becomes  you  not 
To  kneel  before  me.  I am  strangely  moved 
To  see  one  of  your  rank  thus  low  and  humbled  ; 
For  your  sake  I will  put  aside  all  anger, 

All  unkind  feeling,  all  dislike,  and  speak 
In  gentleness,  as  most  becomes  a woman. 

And  as  my  heart  now  prompts  me.  I no 
more 

Will  hate  you,  for  all  hate  is  painful  to  me. 

But  if,  without  offending  modesty 

And  that  reserve  which  is  a woman’s  glory, 

I may  speak  freely,  I will  teach  my  heart 
To  love  you. 

Lara.  O sweet  angel ! 

Prec.  Ay,  in  truth, 

Far  better  than  you  love  yourself  or  me. 
Lara.  Give  me  some  sign  of  this,  — the 
slightest  token. 

Let  me  but  kiss  your  hand  ! 

Prec.  Nay,  come  no  nearer. 

The  words  I utter  are  its  sign  and  token. 
Misunderstand  me  not ! Be  not  deceived  ! 


The  love  wherewith  I love  you  is  not  such 
As  you  would  offer  me.  For  you  come  here 
To  take  from  me  the  only  thing  I have, 

My  honor.  You  are  wealthy,  you  have  friends 
And  kindred,  and  a.  thousand  pleasant  hopes 
That  fill  you  heart  with  happiness  ; but  I 
Am  poor,  and  friendless,  having  but  one  treas- 
ure, 

And  you  would  take  that  from  me,  and  for 
what  ? 

To  flatter  yonr  own  vanity,  and  make  me 
What  you  would  most  despise.  Oh,  sir,  such  love, 
That  seeks  to  harm  me,  cannot  be  true  love. 
Indeed  it  cannot.  But  my  love  for  you 
Is  of  a different  kind.  It  seeks  your  good. 

It  is  a holier  feeling.  It  rebukes 
Your  earthly  passion,  your  unchaste  desires, 
And  bids  you  look  into  your  heart,  and  see 
How  you  do  wrong  that  better  nature  in  you, 
And  grieve  yonr  soul  with  sin. 

Lara.  I swear  to  you, 

I would  not  harm  you  ; I would  only  love  you. 

I would  not  take  yonr  honor,  but  restore  it, 
And  in  return  I ask  but  some  slight  mark 
Of  your  affection.  If  indeed  you  love  me, 

As  you  confess  you  do,  oh  let  me  thus 
With  this  embrace  — 

Viet,  (rushing  forward).  Hold  ! hold  ! 

This  is  too  much. 

What  means  this  outrage  ? 

Lara.  First,  what  right  have  you 

To  question  thus  a nobleman  of  Spain  ? 

Viet.  I too  am  noble,  and  you  are  no  more  ! 
Out  of  my  sight ! 

Lara.  Are  you  the  master  here  ? 

Viet.  Ay,  here  and  elsewhere,  when  the 
wrong  of  others 
Gives  me  the  right ! 

Prec.  (to  Lara).  Go!  I beseech  you,  go! 
Viet.  I shall  have  business  with  you,  Count, 
anon  ! 

Lara.  You  cannot  come  too  soon  ! [ Exit. 

Prec.  Victorian  ! 

Oh,  we  have  been  betrayed  ! 

Viet.  Ha  ! ha  ! betrayed  ! 

’T  is  I have  been  betrayed,  not  we  ! — not  we  ! 
Prec.  Dost  thou  imagine  — 

Viet.  I imagine  nothing  ; 

I see  how ’t  is  thou  whitest  the  time  away 
When  I am  gone  ! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


Prec.  Oh,  speak  not  in  that  tone  ! 

It  wounds  me  deeply. 

Viet.  ’T  was  not  meant  to  flatter. 

Prec.  Too  well  thou  knowest  the  presence 
of  that  man 
Is  hateful  to  me  ! 

Viet.  Yet  I saw  thee  stand 

And  listen  to  him,  when  he  told  his  love. 
Prec.  I did  not  heed  his  words. 

Viet.  Indeed  thou  didst, 

And  answeredst  them  with  love. 

Prec.  Hadst  thou  heard  all  — 

Viet.  I heard  enough. 

Prec.  Be  not  so  angry  with  me. 

Viet.  I am  not  angry  ; I am  very  calm. 
Prec.  If  thou  wilt  let  me  speak  — 

Viet.  N ay,  say  no  more. 

I know  too  much  already.  Thou  art  false  ! 

I do  not  like  these  Gypsy  marriages  ! 

Where  is  the  ring  I gave  thee  ? 

Prec.  In  my  casket. 

Viet.  There  let  it  rest ! I would  not  have 
thee  wear  it  : 

I thought  thee  spotless,  and  thou  art  polluted  ! 
Prec.  I call  the  Heavens  to  witness  — 

Viet.  Nay,  nay,  nay  ! 

Take  not  the  name  of  Heaven  upon  thy  lips  ! 
They  are  forsworn ! 

Prec.  Victorian  ! dear  Victorian  ! 


97 

Viet.  I gave  up  all  for  thee ; myself,  my 
fame, 

My  hopes  of  fortune,  ay,  my  very  soul  ! 

And  thou  hast  been  my  ruin  ! Now,  go  on  ! 
Laugh  at  my  folly  with  thy  paramour, 

And,  sitting  on  the  Count  of  Lara’s  knee, 
Say  what  a poor,  fond  fool  Victorian  was  ! 

( He  casts  her  from  him  and  rushes  out.) 

Prec.  And  this  from  thee  ! 

( Scene  closes.) 

Scene  V. — The  Count  of  Lara’s  rooms.  Enter  the 
Count. 

Lara.  There  ’s  nothing  in  this  world  so 
sweet  as  love, 

And  next  to  love  the  sweetest  thing  is  hate  ! 
I 've  learned  to  hate,  and  therefore  am  re- 
venged. 

A silly  girl  to  play  the  prude  with  me  ! 

The  fire  that  I have  kindled  — 

( Enter  Francisco.) 

Well,  Francisco, 
What  tidings  from  Don  Juan  ? 

Fran.  Good,  my  lord  ; 

He  will  be  present. 

Lara.  And  the  Duke  of  Lermos? 

Fran.  Was  not  at  home. 

Lara.  How  with  the  rest  ? 

Fran.  I ’ve  found 

The  men  you  wanted.  They  will  all  be  there, 
And  at  the  given  signal  raise  a whirlwind 
Of  such  discordant  noises,  that  the  dance 
Must  cease  for  lack  of  music. 

Lara.  Bravely  done. 

Ah  ! little  dost  thou  dream,  sweet  Preciosa, 
What  lies  in  wait  for  thee.  Sleep  shall  not 
close 

Thine  eyes  this  night ! Give  me  my  cloak  and 
sword.  [ Exeunt . 


Scene  VI.  — A retired  spot  beyond  the  city  gates.  Enter 
Victorian  and  Hypolito. 

Viet.  Oh  shame  ! Oh  shame  ! Why  do  I walk 
abroad 

By  daylight,  when  the  very  sunshine  mocks  me, 
And  voices,  and  familiar  sights  and  sounds 
Cry,  “ Hide  thyself ! ” Oh  what  a thin  partition 


98 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Doth  shut  out  from  the  curious  world  the 
knowledge 

Of  evil  deeds  that  have  been  done  in  darkness ! 

Disgrace  has  many  tongues.  My  fears  are 
windows, 

Through  which  all  eyes  seem  gazing.  Every 
face 

Expresses  some  suspicion  of  my  shame, 

And  in  derision  seems  to  smile  at  me ! 

Hyp.  Did  I not  caution  thee  ? Did  I not 
tell  thee 

I was  but  half  persuaded  of  her  virtue  ? 

Viet.  And  yet,  Hypolito,  we  may  be  wrong, 

We  may  be  over-hasty  in  condemning! 

The  Count  of  Lara  is  a cursed  villain. 

Hyp.  And  therefore  is  she  cursed,  loving 
him. 

Viet.  She  does  not  love  him  ! ’T  is  for 
gold  ! for  gold  ! 

Hyp.  Ay,  but  remember,  in  the  public 
streets 

He  shows  a golden  ring  the  Gypsy  gave  him, 

A serpent  with  a ruby  in  its  mouth. 

Viet.  She  had  that  ring  from  me ! God ! 
she  is  false  ! 

But  I will  be  revenged  ! The  hour  is  passed. 

Where  stays  the  coward  ? 


Hyp.  Nay,  he  is  no  coward ; 

A villain,  if  thou  wilt,  but  not  a coward. 

I 've  seen  him  play  with  swords  ; it  is  his  pas- 
time. 

And  therefore  be  not  over-confident, 

He  ’ll  task  thy  skill  anon.  Look,  here  he 
comes. 

( Enter  Lana  followed  by  Fkancisco.) 

Lara.  Good  evening,  gentlemen. 

Hyp.  Good  evening,  Count. 

Lara.  I trust  I have  not  kept  you  long  in 
waiting. 

Viet.  Not  long,  and  yei  too  long.  Are  you 
prepared  ? 

Lara.  I am. 

Hyp.  It  grieves  me  much  to  see 

this  quarrel 

Between  you,  gentlemen.  Is  there  no  way 
Left  open  to  accord  this  difference, 

But  you  must  make  one  with  your  swords  ? 

Viet.  No!  none! 

I do  entreat  thee,  dear  Hypolito, 

Stand  not  between  me  and  my  foe.  Too  long 
Our  tongues  have  spoken.  Let  these  tongues 
of  steel 

End  our  debate.  LTpon  your  guard,  Sir  Count. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


90 


( They  fight.  Victorian  disarms  the  Count.) 
Your  life  is  mine ; and  what  shall  now  with- 
hold me 

From  sending  your  vile  soul  to  its  account  ? 
Lara.  Strike  ! strike  ! 

Viet.  You  are  disarmed. 

I will  not  kill  you. 

I will  not  murder  you.  Take  up  your  sword. 
(Francisco  hands  the  Count  his  sword,  and  II vror.no 
interposes.') 

Hyp.  Enough  ! Let  it  end  here  ! The  Count 
of  Lara 

Has  shown  himself  a brave  man,  and  Victorian 
A generous  one,  as  ever.  Now  be  friends. 
Put  up  your  swords  ; for,  to  speak  frankly  to 
you. 

Your  cause  of  quarrel  is  too  slight  a thing 
To  move  you  to  extremes. 

Lara.  I am  content. 

I sought  no  quarrel.  A few  hasty  words, 
Spoken  in  the  heat  of  blood,  have  led  to  this. 
Viet.  Nay,  something  more  than  that. 
Lara.  I understand  you. 

Therein  I did  not  mean  to  cross  your  path. 
To  me  the  door  stood  open,  as  to  others. 
But,  had  I known  the  girl  belonged  to  you, 
Never  would  I have  sought  to  win  her  from 
you, 

The  truth  stands  now  revealed;  she  has  been 
false 

To  both  of  us. 

Viet.  Ay,  false  as  hell  itself! 

Lara.  In  truth,  I did  not  seek  her  ; she 
sought  me ; 

And  told  me  how  to  win  her,  telling  me 
The  hours  when  she  was  oftenest  left  alone. 
Viet.  Say,  can  you  prove  this  to  me  ? Oh, 
pluck  out 

These  aAvful  doubts,  that  goad  me  into  mad- 
ness ! 

Let  me  know  all ! all ! all ! 

Lara.  You  shall  know  all. 

Here  is  my  page,  who  was  the  messenger 
Between  us.  Question  him.  Was  it  not  so, 
Francisco  ? 

Fran.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Lara.  If  further  proof 

Is  needful,  I have  here  a ring  she  gave  me. 
Viet.  Pray  let  me  see  that  ring  ! It  is  the 
same  ! 


( Throws  it  upon  the  ground,  and  tramples  upon  it.) 
Thus  may  she  perish  who  once  wore  that  ring ! 
Thus  do  I spurn  her  from  me ; do  thus  trample 
Her  memory  in  the  dust!  O Count  of  Lara, 
We  both  have  been  abused,  been  much  abused  ! 
I thank  you  for  your  courtesy  and  frankness. 
Though,  like  the  surgeon’s  hand,  yours  gave 
me  pain, 

Yet  it  has  cured  my  blindness,  and  I thank 
you. 

I now  can  see  the  folly  I have  done, 

Though 't  is,  alas ! too  late.  So  fare  you  well ! 
To-night  I leave  this  hateful  town  forever. 
Regard  me  as  your  friend.  Once  more  fare- 
well ! 

Hyp.  Farewell,  Sir  Count. 

\Exeunt  Victorian  and  Hypolito. 

Lara.  Farewell ! farewell  ! farewell ! 

Thus  have  I cleared  the  field  of  my  worst  foe  ! 
I have  none  else  to  fear ; the  fight  is  done, 
The  citadel  is  stormed,  the  victory  won  ! 

[Exit  with  Francisco. 

Scene  VII.  — A lane  in  the  suburbs.  Night.  Enter 
Cruzado  and  BARTOLOMfi. 

Cruz.  And  so,  Bartolome,  the  expedition 
failed.  But  where  wast  thou  for  the  most 
part  ? 

Bart.  In  the  Guadarrama  mountains,  near 
San  Ildefonso. 

Cruz.  And  thou  bringest  nothing  back  with 
thee?  Didst  thou  rob  no  one? 

Bart.  There  was  no  one  to  rob,  save  a party 
of  students  from  Segovia,  who  looked  as  if  they 
would  rob  us  ; and  a jolly  little  friar,  who  had 
nothing  in  his  pockets  but  a missal  and  a loaf 
of  bread. 

Cruz.  Pray,  then,  what  brings  thee  back  to 
Madrid  ? 

Bart.  First  tell  me  what  keeps  thee  here? 
Cruz.  Preciosa. 

Bart.  And  she  brings  me  back.  Hast  thou 
forgotten  thy  promise  ? 

Cruz.  The  two  years  are  not  passed  yet. 
Wait  patiently.  The  girl  shall  be  thine. 
Bart.  I hear  she  has  a Busne  lover. 

Cruz.  That  is  nothing. 

Bart.  I do  not  like  it.  I hate  him,  — the 
son  of  a Busne  harlot.  He  goes  in  and  out, 


100 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


and  speaks  with  her  alone,  and  I must  stand 
aside,  and  wait  his  pleasure. 

Cruz.  Be  patient,  I say.  Thou  slialt  have 
thy  revenge.  When  the  time  comes,  thou 
slialt  waylay  him. 

Bart.  Meanwhile,  show  me  her  house. 

Cruz.  Come  this  way.  But  thou  wilt  not 
find  her.  She  dances  at  the  play  to-night. 
Bart.  No  matter.  Show  me  the  house. 

[Exeunt. 

Scenk  VIII.  — The  Theatre.  The.  orchestra  plays  the 
cachucha.  Sound  of  castanets  behind  the  scenes.  The 
curtain  rises,  and  discovers  Preciosa  in  the  attitude  of 
commencing  the  dance.  The  cachucha.  Tumult;  hisses; 
cries  of  ‘ 1 Brava  ! ” and  “ A fuera  ! ’ ’ She  falters  and 
pauses.  The  music  stops.  General  confusion.  Pre- 
ciosa faints. 

Scene  IX. — The  Count  of  Lara’s  chambers.  Lara 
and  his  friends  at  supper. 

Lara.  So,  Caballeros,  once  more  many 
thanks ! 

You  have  stood  by  me  bravely  in  this  matter. 
Pray  fill  your  glasses. 

Don  J.  Did  you  mark,  Don  Luis, 

How  pale  she  looked,  when  first  the  noise 
began, 

And  then  stood  still,  with  her  large  eyes 
dilated ! 

Her  nostrils  spread  ! her  lips  apart ! her  bosom 
Tumultuous  as  the  sea ! 

Don  L.  I pitied  her. 

Lara.  Her  pride  is  humbled ; and  this  very 
night 

1 mean  to  visit  her. 

Don  J.  Will  you  serenade  her  ? 

Lara.  No  music ! no  more  music  ! 

Don  L.  Why  not  music  ? 

It  softens  many  hearts. 

Lara.  Not  in  the  humor 

She  now  is  in.  Music  would  madden  her. 
Don  J.  Try  golden  cymbals. 

Don  L.  Yes,  try  Don  Dinero  ; 

A mighty  wooer  is  your  Don  Dinero. 

Lara.  To  tell  the  truth,  then,  I have  bribed 
her  maid. 

But,  Caballeros,  you  dislike  this  wine. 

A bumper  and  away  ; for  the  night  wears. 

A health  to  Preciosa. 


( They  rise  and  drink.') 

All.  Preciosa. 

Lara  ( holding  tip  his  glass).  Thou  bright 
and  flaming  minister  of  Love  ! 

Thou  wonderful  magician  ! who  hast  stolen 
My  secret  from  me,  and  mid  sighs  of  passion 
Caught  from  my  lips,  with  red  and  fiery 
tongue, 

Her  precious  name  ! Oh  nevermore  henceforth 
Shall  mortal  lips  press  thine  ; and  nevermore 
A mortal  name  be  whispered  in  thine  ear. 

Go ! keep  my  secret ! 

( Drinks  and  dashes  the  goblet  down.) 

Don  J.  Ite  ! missa  est ! 

( Scene  closes.) 

Scene  X.  — Street  and  garden  wall.  Night.  Enter 
Cruzado  and  Bartoi.om^. 

Cruz.  This  is  the  garden  wall,  and  above  it, 
yonder,  is  her  house.  The  window  in  which 
thou  seest  the  light  is  her  window.  But  we 
will  not  go  in  now. 

Bart.  Why  not  ? 

Cruz.  Because  she  is  not  at  home. 

Bart.  No  matter;  we  can  wait.  But  how 
is  this  ? The  gate  is  bolted.  ( Sound  of  gui- 
tars and  voices  in  a neighboring  street.)  Hark  ! 
There  comes  her  lover  with  his  infernal  sere- 
nade ! Hark  ! 

SONG. 

Good  night!  Good  night,  beloved! 

I come  to  watch  o’er  thee  ! 

To  be  near  thee,  — to  be  near  thee, 

Alone  is  peace  for  me. 

Thine  eyes  are  stars  of  morning, 

Thy  lips  are  crimson  flowers  ! 

Good  night ! Good  night,  beloved, 

While  I count  the  weary  hours. 

Cruz.  They  are  not  coming  this  way. 

Bart.  Wait,  they  begin  again. 

song  ( coming  nearer). 

Ah  ! thou  moon  that  shinest 
Argent-clear  above  ! 

All  night  long  enlighten 
My  sweet  lady-love  ; 

Moon  that  shinest, 

All  night  long  enlighten ! 


HENR  Y WADS  WOR TH  L ON G FELL  0 W. 


101 


Bart.  Woe  be  to  him,  if  he  comes  this  way  ! 

Cruz.  Be  quiet,  they  are  passing  down  the 
street. 

song  (dying  away). 

The  nuns  in  the  cloister 
Sang  to  each  other  ; 

For  so  many  sisters 

Is  there  not  one  brother ! 

Ay,  for  the  partridge,  mother ! 

The  cat  has  run  away  with  the  partridge  ! 

Puss  ! puss  ! puss  ! 

Bart.  Follow  that ! follow  that ! Come  with 
me.  Puss  ! puss  ! 

(Exeunt.  On  the  opposite  side  enter  the  Count  of  Lai:a 
and  gentlemen  with  Francisco.) 

Lara.  The  gate  is  fast.  Over  the  wall, 
Francisco, 

And  draw  the  bolt.  There,  so,  and  so,  and 
over. 

Now,  gentlemen,  come  in,  and  help  me  scale 
Yon  balcony.  How  now  ? Her  light  still 
burns. 

Move  warily.  Make  fast  the  gate,  Francisco. 

(Exeunt.  Reenter  Cruzado  and  BartolomiL) 

Bart.  They  went  in  at  the  gate.  Hark ! I 
hear  them  in  the  garden.  ( Tries  the  gate.) 
Bolted  again  ! Vive  Cristo  ! Follow  me  over 
the  wall. 

(They  climb  the  wall.) 


Scene  XL — Preciosa’s  bedchamber.  Midnight.  She 
is  sleeping  in  an  arm-chair , in  an  undress.  Dolores 
watching  her. 

Dol.  She  sleeps  at  last ! 

(Opens  the  window , and  listens.) 

All  silent  in  the  street, 
And  in  the  garden.  Hark ! 

Free.  ( in  her  sleep).  I must  go  hence! 
Give  me  my  cloak  ! 

Dol.  He  comes  ! I hear  his  footsteps. 
Prec.  Go  tell  them  that  I cannot  dance  to- 
night ; 

I am  too  ill ! Look  at  me ! See  the  fever 
That  burns  upon  my  cheek  ! I must  go  hence. 
I am  too  weak  to  dance. 

(Signal  from  the  garden.) 

Dol.  ( from  the  ivindow).  Who 's  there  ? 
Voice  ( from  below).  A friend. 

Dol.  I will  undo  the  door.  Wait  till  I 
come. 

Prec.  I must  go  hence.  I pray  you  do  not 
harm  me  ! 

Shame  ! shame  ! to  treat  a feeble  woman  thus  ! 
Be  you  but  kind,  I will  do  all  things  for 
you. 

I'm  ready  now, — give  me  my  castanets. 
Where  is  Victorian  ? Oh,  those  hateful  lamps  ! 


102 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


They  glare  upon  me  like  an  evil  eye. 

I cannot  stay.  Hark  ! how  they  mock  at  me  ! 
They  hiss  at  me  like  serpents  ! Save  me  ! 
save  me  ! 

(She  wakes. ) 

How  late  is  it,  Dolores  ? 

Dot.  It  is  midnight. 

Prec.  We  must  be  patient.  Smooth  this 
pillow  for  me. 

(She  sleeps  again.  Noise  from  the  garden , and  voices.) 
Voice.  Muera ! 

Another  voice.  O villains  ! villains  ! 

Lara.  So  ! have  at  you  ! 

Voice.  Take  that ! 

Lara.  Oh,  I am  wounded ! 

Pol.  ( shutting  the  window ).  Jesu  Maria ! 

ACT  III. 


Viet.  Yes,  Love  is  ever  busy  with  his 
shuttle, 

Is  ever  weaving  into  life’s  dull  warp 
Bright,  gorgeous  flowers  and  scenes  Arcadian  ; 
Hanging  our  gloomy  prison-house  about 
With  tapestries,  that  make  its  walls  dilate 
In  never-ending  vistas  of  delight. 

Hyp.  Thinking  to  walk  in  those  Arcadian 
pastures, 

Thou  hast  run  thy  noble  head  against  the  Avail. 
SONG  (continued). 

Thy  deceits 

Give  us  clearly  to  comprehend, 

Whither  tend 

All  thy  pleasures,  all  thy  sweets  ! 

They  are  cheats, 

Thorns  below  and  flowers  above. 

Ah,  Love  ! 

Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 


Scene  I.  — A cross-road  through  a wood.  In  the  back- 
ground a distant  village  spire.  Victorian  and  Ha'po- 
lito,  as  travelling  students,  with  guitars,  sitting  under 
the  trees.  Hypolito  plays  and  sings. 


Viet.  A very  pretty  song.  I thank  thee 
for  it. 

Hyp.  It  suits  thy  case. 

Viet.  Indeed,  I think  it  does. 

What  wise  man  wrote  it  ? 


Hyp.  Lopez  Maldonado. 

Viet.  In  truth,  a pretty  song. 


SONG. 

Ah,  Love  ! 

Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love! 

Enemy 

Of  all  that  mankind  may  not  rue  ! 

Most  untrue 

To  him  who  keeps  most  faith  with  thee. 
Woe  is  me  ! 

The  falcon  has  the  eyes  of  the  dove. 

Ah,  Love  ! 

Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


103 


Hyp.  With  much  truth  in  it. 

I hope  thou  wilt  profit  by  it ; and  in  earnest 
Try  to  forget  this  lady  of  thy  love. 

Viet.  I will  forget  her  ! All  dear  recollec- 
tions 

Pressed  in  my  heart,  like  flowers  within  a 
book, 

Shall  be  torn  out,  and  scattered  to  the  winds  ! 
1 will  forget  her ! But  perhaps  hereafter, 
When  she  shall  learn  how  heartless  is  the  world, 
A voice  within  her  will  repeat  my  name, 
And  she  will  say,  “ He  was  indeed  my  friend  ! ” 
Oh,  would  I were  a soldier,  not  a scholar, 
That  the  loud  march,  the  deafening  beat  of 
drums, 

The  shattering  blast  of  the  brass-throated 
trumpet, 

The  din  of  arms,  the  onslaught  and  the  storm, 
And  a swift  death,  might  make  me  deaf  forever 
To  the  upbraidings  of  this  foolish  heart  ! 

Hyp.  Then  let  that  foolish  heart  upbraid  no 
more  ! 

To  conquer  love,  one  need  but  will  to  conquer. 

Viet.  Yet,  good  Hypolito,  it  is  in  vain 
I throw  into  Oblivion’s  sea  the  sword 
That  pierces  me  ; for,  like  Excalibar, 

With  gemmed  and  flashing  hilt,  it  will  not 
sink. 

There  rises  from  below  a hand  that  grasps  it, 
And  waves  it  in  the  air  ; and  wailing  voices 
Are  heard  along  the  shore. 

Hyp.  And  yet  at  last 

Down  sank  Excalibar  to  rise  no  more. 

This  is  not  well.  In  truth,  it  vexes  me. 
Instead  of  whistling  to  the  steeds  of  Time, 
To  make  them  jog  on  merrily  with  life’s 
burden, 

Like  a dead  weight  thou  hangest  on  the  wheels. 
Thou  art  too  young,  too  full  of  lusty  health 
To  talk  of  dying. 

Viet.  Yet  I fain  would  die  ! 

To  go  through  life,  unloving  and  unloved  ; 
To  feel  that  thirst  and  hunger  of  the  soul 
We  cannot  still;  that  longing,  that  wild  im- 
pulse, 

And  struggle  after  something  we  have  not 
And  cannot  have  ; the  effort  to  be  strong  ; 
And,  like  the  Spartan  boy,  to  smile,  and  smile. 
While  secret  wounds  do  bleed  beneath  our 
cloaks  ; 


All  this  the  dead  feel  not,  — the  dead  alone  ! 
Would  I were  with  them  ! 

Hyp.  We  shall  all  be  soon. 

Viet.  It  cannot  be  too  soon  ; for  I am  weary 
Of  the  bewildering  masquerade  of  Life, 

Where  strangers  walk  as  friends,  and  friends 
as  strangers  ; 

Where  whispers  overheard  betray  false  hearts  ; 
And  through  the  mazes  of  the  crowd  we  chase 
Some  form  of  loveliness,  that  smiles,  and 
beckons, 

And  cheats  us  with  fair  words,  only  to  leave 
us 

A mockery  and  a jest ; maddened,  — con- 
fused, — 

Not  knowing  friend  from  foe. 

Hyp.  Why  seek  to  know? 

Enjoy  the  merry  shrove-tide  of  thy  youth  ! 
Take  each  fair  mask  for  what  it  gives  itself. 
Nor  strive  to  look  beneath  it. 

Viet.  I confess, 

That  were  the  wiser  part.  But  Hope  no 
longer 

Comforts  my  soul.  I am  a wretched  man, 
Much  like  a poor  and  shipwrecked  mariner, 
Who,  struggling  to  climb  up  into  the  boat. 
Has  both  his  bruised  and  bleeding  hands  cut 
off, 

And  sinks  again  into  the  weltering  sea, 
Helpless  and  hopeless  ! 

Hyp.  Yet  thou  shalt  not  perish. 

The  strength  of  thine  own  arm  is  thy  salva- 
tion. 

Above  thy  head,  through  rifted  clouds,  there 
shines 

A glorious  star.  Be  patient.  Trust  thy  star  ! 

( Sound  of  a village  bell  in  the  distance.) 

Viet.  Ave  Maria  ! I hear  the  sacristan 
Ringing  the  chimes  from  yonder  village  belfry  ! 
A solemn  sound,  that  echoes  far  and  wide 
Over  the  red  roofs  of  the  cottages, 

And  bids  the  laboring  hind  a-lield,  the  shep- 
herd, 

Guarding  his  flock,  the  lonely  muleteer, 

And  all  the  crowd  in  village  streets,  stand  still. 
And  breathe  a prayer  unto  the  blessed  Virgin 
Hyp.  Amen  ! amen ! Not  half  a league 
from  hence 
The  village  lies. 

O 


104 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Viet.  This  path  will  lead  us  to  it, 

Over  the  wheat-fields,  where  the  shadows  sail 
Across  the  running  sea,  now  green,  now  bine, 
And,  like  an  idle  mariner  on  the  main, 
Whistles  the  quail.  Come,  let  us  hasten  on. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  II. — Public  square  in  the  village  of  Guadarrama. 
The  Ace  Maria  still  lolling.  A crowd  of  villagers,  ivith 
their  hats  in  their  hands,  as  if  in  prayer.  In  front,  a 
group  of  Gypsies.  The  bell  rings  a merrier  peal.  A 
Gypsy  dance.  Enter  Panciio,  followed  by  Pedro 
Crespo. 

Panclto.  Make  room,  ye  vagabonds  and 
Gypsy  thieves ! 

Make  room  for  the  Alcalde  and  for  me  ! 
Pedro  C.  Keep  silence  all  ! 1 have  an  edict 
here 

From  our  most  gracious  lord,  the  King  of 
Spain, 

Jerusalem,  and  the  Canary  Islands, 

Which  I shall  publish  in  the  market-place. 
Open  your  ears  and  listen  ! 


(Enter  the  Padre  Cura  at  the  door  of  his  cottage.) 

Padre  Cura, 

Good  day ! and,  pray  you,  hear  this  edict  read. 
Padre  C.  Good  day,  and  God  be  with  you  ! 
Pray,  what  is  it  ? 

Pedro  C.  An  act  of  banishment  against  the 
Gypsies  ! 

( Agitation  and  murmurs  in  the  crowd.) 

Pancho.  Silence  ! 

Pedro  C.  ( reads ).  “ I hereby  order  and 

command, 

That  the  Egyptian  and  Chaldean  strangers, 
Known  by  the  name  of  Gypsies,  shall  hence- 
forth 

Be  banished  from  the  realm,  as  vagabonds 
And  beggars  ; and  if,  after  seventy  days, 

Any  be  found  within  our  kingdom’s  bounds, 
They  shall  receive  a hundred  lashes  each  ; 
The  second  time,  shall  have  their  ears  cut  off ; 
1 lie  third,  be  slaves  for  life  to  him  who  takes 
them, 

Or  burnt  as  heretics.  Signed,  I,  the  King.” 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


105 


Vile  miscreants  and  creatures  unbaptized  ! 

You  hear  the  law  ! Obey  and  disappear ! 
Pancho.  And  if  in  seventy  days  you  are  not 
gone, 

Dead  or  alive  I make  you  all  my  slaves. 

( The  Gypsies  go  out  in  confusion,  showing  signs  of  fear 
and  discontent.  Panciio  follows.') 

Padre  C.  A righteous  law  ! A very  right- 
eous law  ! 

Pray  you,  sit  down. 

Pedro  C.  I thank  you  heartily. 

( They  seat  themselves  on  a bench  at  the  Padre  Cura’s 
door.  Sound  of  guitars  heard  at  a distance,  approach- 
ing during  the  dialogue  which  follows.) 

A very  righteous  judgment,  as  you  say, 

Now  tell  me,  Padre  Cura,  — you  know  all 
things,  — 

How  came  these  Gypsies  into  Spain  ? 

Padre  C.  Why,  look  you  ; 

They  came  with  Hercules  from  Palestine, 

And  hence  are  thieves  and  vagrants,  Sir 
Alcalde, 

As  the  Simoniacs  from  Simon  Magus. 

And,  look  you,  as  Fray  Jayme  Bleda  says, 
There  are  a hundred  marks  to  prove  a Moor 
Is  not  a Christian,  so  ’t  is  with  the  Gypsies. 
They  never  marry,  never  go  to  mass, 

Never  baptize  their  children,  nor  keep  Lent, 
Nor  see  the  inside  of  a church,  — nor  — nor  — 
Pedro  C.  Good  reasons,  good,  substantial 
reasons  all  ! 

No  matter  for  the  other  ninety-five. 

They  should  be  burnt,  I see  it  plain  enough, 
They  should  be  burnt. 

( Enter  Victorian  and  Hypolito  playing.) 

Padre  C.  And  pray,  whom  have  we  here  ? 
Pedro  0.  More  vagrants  ! By  Saint  Laza- 
rus, more  vagrants  ! 

Hyp . Good  evening,  gentlemen  ! Is  this 
Guadarrama  ? 

Padre  C.  Yes,  Guadarrama,  and  good  even- 
ing to  you. 

Hyp.  We  seek  the  Padre  Cura  of  the  vil- 
lage ; 

And,  judging  from  your  dress  and  reverend 
mien, 

You  must  be  he. 


Padre  C.  I am.  Pray,  what  ’s  your 

pleasure  ? 

Hyp.  We  are  poor  students  travelling  in 
vacation. 

Y on  know  this  mark  ? 

( Touching  the  wooden  spoon  in  his  hat-band.) 

Padre  C.  ( joyfully ).  Ay,  know  it,  and  have 
worn  it. 

Pedro  C.  ( aside ).  Soup-eaters!  by  the  mass! 
The  worst  of  vagrants  ! 

And  there ’s  no  law  against  them.  Sir,  your 
servant.  [Exit. 

Padre  C.  Your  servant,  Pedro  Crespo. 

Hyp.  Padre  Cura, 

From  the  first  moment  I beheld  your  face, 

I said  within  myself,  “ This  is  the  man ! ” 
There  is  a certain  something  in  your  looks, 

A certain  scholar-like  and  studious  some- 
thing, — 

You  understand,  — which  cannot  be  mistaken  ; 
Which  marks  you  as  a very  learned  man, 

In  fine,  as  one  of  us. 

Viet,  (aside').  What  impudence  ! 

Hyp.  As  we  approached,  I said  to  my  com- 
panion, 

“ That  is  the  Padre  Cura  ; mark  my  words  ! ” 


106 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Meaning  your  Grace.  “The  other  man,”  said  I, 
“ Wlio  sits  so  awkwardly  upon  the  bench, 
Must  be  the  sacristan.” 

Padre  C.  All ! said  you  so  ? 

Why,  that  was  Pedro  Crespo,  the  alcalde  ! 
Hyp . Indeed  ! you  much  astonish  me  ! His 
air 

Was  not  so  full  of  dignity  and  grace 
As  an  alcalde’s  should  be. 

Padre  C.  That  is  true, 

lie ’s  out  of  humor  with  some  vagrant  Gypsies, 
Who  have  their  camp  here  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

There ’s  nothing  so  undignified  as  anger. 

Hyp.  The  Padre  Cura  will  excuse  our  bold- 
ness, 

If,  from  his  well-known  hospitality, 

We  crave  a lodging  for  the  night. 

Padre  C.  I pray  you  ! 

You  do  me  honor  ! I am  but  too  happy 
To  have  such  guests  beneath  my  humble  roof. 
It  is  not  often  that  I have  occasion 
To  speak  with  scholars ; and  Emollit  mores, 
Nec  sinit  esse  feros , Cicero  says. 

Hyp.  ’T  is  Ovid,  is  it  not  ? 

Padre  C.  No,  Cicero. 

Hyp.  Your  Grace  is  right.  You  are  the 
better  scholar. 

Now  what,  a dunce  was  I to  think  it  Ovid  ! 
But  hang  me  if  it  is  not ! ( Aside.) 

Padre  C.  Pass  this  way. 

He  was  a very  great  man,  was  Cicero  ! 

Pray  you,  go  in,  go  in  ! no  ceremony. 

[ Exeunt . 

Scene  III.  — A room  in  the  Padre  Cura’s  house. 
Enter  the  Padre  and  H'ypomto. 

Padre  C.  So  then,  Senor,  you  come  from 
Alcala. 

I am  glad  to  hear  it.  It  was  there  I studied. 
Hyj).  And  left  behind  an  honored  name,  no 
doubt. 

How  may  I call  your  Grace  ? 

Padre  C.  Gerdnimo 

De  Santillana,  at  your  Honor’s  service. 

Hyp.  Descended  from  the  Marquis  San- 
tillana ? 

From  the  distinguished  poet? 


Padre  C.  From  the  Marquis, 

Not  from  the  poet. 

Hyp.  Why,  they  were  the  same. 

Let  me  embrace  you  ! Oh,  some  lucky  star 
Has  brought  me  hither  ! Yet  once  more  ! — 
once  more  ! 

Your  name  is  ever  green  in  Alcaic, 

And  our  professor,  when  we  are  unruly, 

Will  shake  his  hoary  head,  and  say,  “ Alas  ! 
It  was  not  so  in  Santillana’s  time  ! ” 

Padre  C.  I did  not  think  my  name  re- 
membered there. 

Hyp.  More  than  remembered  ; it  is  idolized. 
Padre  C.  Of  what  professor  speak  you  ? 
Hyp.  Timoneda. 

Padre  C.  I don’t  remember  any  Timoneda. 
Hyp.  A grave  and  sombre  man,  whose  beet- 
ling brow 

O’erliangs  the  rushing  current  of  his  speech 
As  rocks  o’er  rivers  hang.  Have  you  forgotten? 
Padre  C.  Indeed,  I have.  Oh,  those  were 
pleasant  days, 

Those  college  days  ! I ne’er  shall  see  the  like  ! 
I had  not  buried  then  so  many  hopes  ! 

I had  not  buried  then  so  many  friends ! 

I ’ve  turned  my  back  on  what  was  then  be- 
fore me  ; 

And  the  bright  faces  of  my  young  companions 
Are  wrinkled  like  my  own,  or  are  no  more. 
Do  you  remember  Cueva  ? 

Hyp.  Cueva  ? Cueva  ? 

Padre  C.  Fool  that  I am  ! He  was  before 
your  time. 

You  ’re  a mere  boy,  and  I am  an  old  man. 
Hyp.  I should  not  like  to  try  my  strength 
with  you. 

Padre  C.  Well,  well.  But  I forget  ; you 
must  be  hungry. 

Martina  ! ho ! Martina  ! ’T  is  my  niece. 

( Enter  Martina.) 

Hyp.  You  may  be  proud  of  such  a niece  as 
that. 

I wish  I had  a niece.  Emollit  mores.  {Aside.') 
He  was  a very  great  man,  was  Cicero  ! 

Your  servant,  fair  Martina. 

Mart.  Servant,  sir. 

Padre  C.  This  gentleman  is  hungry.  See 
thou  to  it. 

Let  us  have  supper. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


107 


Mart.  ’T  will  be  ready  soon. 

Padre  C.  And  bring  a bottle  of  my  Val- 
de-Penas 

Out  of  the  cellar.  Stay  ; I 'll  go  myself. 

Pray  you,  Seilor,  excuse  me.  [Exit. 

Hyp.  Hist!  Martina! 

One  word  with  you.  Bless  me ! what  hand- 
some eyes  ! 

To-day  there  have  been  Gypsies  in  the  village. 
Is  it  not  so  ? 

Mart.  There  have  been  Gypsies  here. 

Hyp.  Yes,  and  have  told  your  fortune. 
Mart.  ( embarrassed ).  Told  my  fortune? 
Hyp.  Yes,  yes  ; I know  they  did.  Give  me 
your  hand. 

I 'll  tell  you  what  they  said.  They  said,  — 
they  said, 

The  shepherd  boy  that  loved  you  was  a clown, 
And  him  you  should  not  marry.  W as  it  not  ? 
Mart.  ( surprised ).  How  know  you  that? 
Hyp.  Oh,  I know  more  than  that. 

What  a soft,  little  hand ! And  then  they 
said, 

A cavalier  from  court,  handsome,  and  tall 
And  rich,  should  come  one  day  to  marry 
you, 

And  you  should  be  a lady.  Was  it  not? 

He  has  arrived,  the  handsome  cavalier. 

( Tries  to  kiss  her.  She  runs  off.  Enter  Victorian, 
with  a letter.') 

Viet.  The  muleteer  has  come. 

Hyp.  So  soon? 

Viet.  I found  him 

Sitting  at  supper  by  the  tavern  door, 

And,  from  a pitcher  that  he  held  aloft 
His  whole  arm’s  length,  drinking  the  blood- 
red  wine. 

Hyp.  What  news  from  Court? 

Viet.  He  brought  this  letter  only. 

(Reads.) 

Oh,  cursed  perfidy  ! Why  did  I let 
That  lying  tongue  deceive  me  ! Preciosa, 
Sweet  Preciosa?  how  art  thou  avenged! 

Hyp.  What  news  is  this,  that  makes  thy 
cheek  turn  pale, 

And  thy  hand  tremble? 

Viet.  Oh,  most  infamous  ! 

The  Count  of  Lara  is  a worthless  villain ! 


Hyp.  That  is  no  news,  forsooth. 

Viet.  He  strove  in  vain 

To  steal  from  me  the  jewel  of  my  soul, 

The  love  of  Preciosa.  Not  succeeding, 

He  swore  to  be  revenged ; and  set  on  foot 
A plot  to  ruin  her,  which  has  succeeded. 

She  has  been  hissed  and  hooted  from  the 
stage, 

Her  reputation  stained  by  slanderous  lies 
Too  foul  to  speak  of ; and,  once  more  a beg- 
gar, 

She  roams  a wanderer  over  God’s  green 
earth, 

Housing  with  Gypsies ! 

Hyp.  To  renew  again 

The  Age  of  Gold,  and  make  the  shepherd 
swains 

Desperate  with  love,  like  Gasper  Gil’s  Di- 
ana. 

Redit  et  Virgo  ! 

Viet.  -Dear  Hypolito, 

How  have  I wronged  that  meek,  confiding 
heart ! 

I will  go  seek  for  her ; and  with  my  tears 
Wash  out  the  wrong  I’ve  done  her! 

Hyp.  Oh,  beware  ! 

Act  not  that  folly  o’er  again. 

Viet.  Ay,  folly, 

Delusion,  madness,  call  it  what  thou  wilt, 

I will  confess  my  weakness,  — I still  love 
her  ! 

Still  fondly  love  her ! 


108 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


( Enter  the  Padre  Cura.) 

Hyp.  Tell  us,  Padre  Cura, 

Who  are  these  Gypsies  in  the  neighborhood? 
Padre  C.  Beltran  Cruzado  and  his  crew. 
Viet.  Kind  Heaven, 

I thank  thee ! She  is  found  ! is  found  again  ! 
Hyp.  And  have  they  with  them  a pale, 
beautiful  girl, 

Called  Preciosa  ? 

Padre  C.  Ay,  a pretty  girl. 

The  gentleman  seems  moved. 

Hyp.  Yes,  moved  with  hunger, 

He  is  half  famished  with  this  long  day’s 
journey. 

Padre  C.  Then,  pray  you,  come  this  way. 
The  supper  waits.  [Exeunt. 


Scene  IV.  — A post-house  on  the  road  to  Segovia , not 
far  from  the  village  of  Guadarrama.  Enter  Chispa, 
cracking  a ivhip,  and  singing  the  cachucha. 

Cliispa.  Halloo  ! Don  F ulano ! Let  us  have 
horses,  and  quickly.  Alas,  poor  Chispa ! what 
a dog’s  life  dost  thou  lead ! I thought,  when 
I left  my  old  master  Victorian,  the  student, 
to  serve  my  new  master  Don  Carlos,  the 
gentleman,  that  I,  too,  should  lead  the  life  of 
a gentleman  ; should  go  to  bed  early,  and  get 
up  late.  For  when  the  abbot  plays  cards, 
what  can  you  expect  of  the  friars?  But,  in 
running  away  from  the  thunder,  1 have  run 
into  the  lightning.  Here  I am  in  hot  chase 
after  my  master  and  his  Gypsy  girl.  And  a 


( Enter  Don  Carlos.) 


Don  C.  Are  not  the  horses  ready  yet  ? 
Chispa.  I should  think  not,  for  the  hostler 
seems  to  be  asleep.  Ho ! within  there ! 
Horses ! horses  ! horses  ! (He  knocks  at  the 
gate  with  Ids  whip , and  enter  Mosquito,  put- 
ting on  his  jacket .) 

Mosq.  Pray,  have  a little  patience. 

I ’m  not  a musket. 


Chispa.  Health  and  pistareens  ! I ’m  glad 
to  see  you  come  on  dancing,  padre ! Pray, 
what ’s  the  news  ? 

Mosq.  You  cannot  have  fresh  horses ; be- 
cause there  are  none. 

Chispa.  Cachiporra ! Throw  that  bone  to 
another  dog.  Do  T look  like  your  aunt  ? 

Mosq.  No ; she  has  a beard. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


109 


Chispa.  Go  to ! go  to  ! 

dfosq.  Are  you  from  Madrid  ? 

Chispa.  Yes ; and  going  to  Estramadura. 
Get  us  horses. 

Mosq.  What ’s  the  news  at  Court  ? 

Chispa.  Why,  the  latest  news  is,  that  I am 
going  to  set  up  a coach,  and  I have  already 
bought  the  whip. 

{ Strikes  him  round  the  legs.) 

Mosq.  Oh  ! oh ! you  hurt  me ! 

Don  C.  Enough  of  this  folly.  Let  us  have 
horses.  ( Gives  money  to  Mosquito.)  It  is 
almost  dark ; and  we  are  in  haste.  But  tell 
me,  has  a band  of  Gypsies  passed  this  way 
of  late? 

Mosq.  Yes ; and  they  are  still  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

Don  C.  And  where? 

Mosq.  Across  the  fields  yonder,  in  the 
woods  near  Guadarrama.  [ Exit. 

Don  C.  Now  this  is  lucky.  We  will  visit 
the  Gypsy  camp. 

Chispa.  Are  you  not  afraid  of  the  evil 
eye  ? Have  you  a stag’s  horn  with  you  ? 


Don  C.  Fear  not.  We  will  pass  the  night 
at  the  village. 

Chispa.  And  sleep  like  the  Squires  of  Iler- 
nan  Daza,  nine  under  one  blanket. 

Don  C.  I hope  we  may  find  the  Preciosa 
among  them. 

Chispa.  Among  the  Squires  ? 

Don  C.  No ; among  the  Gypsies,  block- 
head ! 

Chispa.  I hope  we  may ; for  we  are  giving 
ourselves  trouble  enough  on  her  account. 
Don’t  you  think  so  ? However,  there  is  no 
catching  trout  without  wetting  one’s  trousers. 
Yonder  come  the  horses.  [ Exeunt . 

Scene  V.  — The  Gypsy  camp  in  the  forest.  Night. 
Gypsies  icorhing  at  a forge.  Others  playing  cards  by 
the  frelight. 

Gypsies  (at  the  forge  sing). 

On  the  top  of  a mountain  I stand, 

With  a crown  of  red  gold  in  my  hand, 

Wild  Moors  come  trooping  over  the  lea, 

Oh  how  from  their  fury  shall  I flee,  flee,  flee  ? 
Oh  how  from  their  fury  shall  I flee? 


no 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


First  Gypsy  ( playing ).  Down  with  your 
J ohn-Dorados,  my  pigeon.  Down  with  your 
John-Dorados,  and  let  us  make  an  end. 

Gypsies  (at  the  for  ye  sing'). 

Loud  sang  the  Spanish  cavalier, 

And  thus  his  ditty  ran ; 

God  send  the  Gypsy  lassie  here, 

And  not  the  Gypsy  man. 

First  Gypsy  (playing).  There  you  are  in 
your  morocco ! 

Second  Gypsy.  One  more  game.  The  Al- 
calde’s doves  against  the  Padre  Cura's  new 
moon. 

First  Gypsy.  Have  at  you,  Chirelin. 

Gypsies  (at  the  forge  sing). 

At  midnight,  when  the  moon  began 
To  show  her  silver  flame, 

There  came  to  him  no  Gypsy  man, 

The  Gypsy  lassie  came. 

( Enter  Beltran  Cruzado.) 

Cruz.  Come  hither,  Murcigalleros  and  Ras- 
tilleros ; leave  work,  leave  play ; listen  to 
your  orders  for  the  night.  (Speaking  to  the 
right.)  You  will  get  you  to  the  village, 
mark  you,  by  the  stone  cross. 

Gypsies.  Ay ! 

Cruz,  (to  the  left).  And  you,  by  the  pole 
with  the  hermit’s  head  upon  it. 

Gypsies.  Ay  ! 

Cruz.  As  soon  as  you  see  the  planets  are 
out,  in  with  you,  and  be  busy  with  the  ten 
commandments,  under  the  sly,  and  Saint 
Martin  asleep.  D’  ye  hear  ? 

Gypsies.  Ay  ! 

Cruz.  Keep  your  lanterns  open,  and,  if  you 
see  a goblin  or  a papagayo,  take  to  your 
trampers.  Vineyards  and  Dancing  John  is 
the  word.  Am  I comprehended  ? 

Gypsies.  Ay  ! ay  ! 

Cruz.  Away,  then  ! 

(Exeunt  severally.  Cruzado  walks  up  the  stage , and 

disappears  among  the  trees.  Enter  Prkciosa.) 

Ft  "ec.  How  strangely  gleams  through  the 
gigantic  trees, 

The  red  light  of  the  forge ! Wild,  beckon- 
ing shadows, 

Stalk  through  the  forest,  ever  and  anon 
Rising  and  bending  with  the  flickering  flame, 


Then  flitting  into  darkness ! So  within  me 
Strange  hopes  and  fears  do  beckon  to  each 
other, 

My  brightest  hopes  giving  dark  fears  a being 
As  the  light  does  the  shadow.  Woe  is  me  ! 
How  still  it  is  about  me,  and  how  lonely  ! 

(Bartolom^  rushes  in.) 

Bart.  Ho!  Preciosa! 

Free.  O Bartolomfi ! 

Thou  here  ? 

Bart.  Lo ! I am  here. 

Free.  Whence  comest  thou  ? 

Bart.  From  the  rough  ridges  of  the  wild 
Sierra, 

From  caverns  in  the  rocks,  from  hunger,  thirst, 
And  fever  ! Like  a wild  wolf  to  the  sheepfold 
Come  I for  thee,  my  lamb. 

Free.  Oh,  touch  me  not ! 

The  Count  of  Lara’s  blood  is  on  thy  hands  ! 
The  Count  of  Lara’s  curse  is  on  thy  soul  ! 
Do  not  come  near  me  ! Pray,  begone  from 
here  ! 

Thou  art  in  danger  ! They  have  set  a price 
Upon  thy  head  ! 

Bart.  Ay,  and  I 've  wandered  long 

Among  the  mountains  ; and  for  many  days 
Have  seen  no  human  face,  save  the  rough 
swineherd’s. 

The  wind  and  rain  have  been  my  sole  com- 
panions. 

I shouted  to  them  from  the  rocks  thy  name, 
And  the  loud  echo  sent  it  back  to  me, 

Till  I grew  mad.  I could  not  stay  from  thee, 
And  I am  here ! Betray  me,  if  thou  wilt. 
Prec.  Betray  thee  ? I betray  thee  ? 

Bart.  Preciosa ! 

I come  for  thee  ! for  thee  I thus  brave  death  ! 
Fly  with  me  o’er  the  borders  of  this  realm  ! 
Fly  with  me  ! 

Prec.  Speak  of  that  no  more.  I 

cannot. 

I ’m  thine  no  longer. 

Bart.  Oh,  recall  the  time 

When  we  were  children ! how  we  played  to- 
gether, 

How  we  grew  up  together  ; how  we  plighted 
Our  hearts  unto  each  other,  even  in  child- 
hood ! 

Fulfil  thy  promise,  for  the  hour  has  come. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


I’m  hunted  from  the  kingdom,  like  a wolf! 
Fulfil  thy  promise. 

Prec.  ’T  was  my  father’s  promise, 

Not  mine.  I never  gave  my  heart  to  thee, 
Nor  promised  thee  my  hand  ! 

Bart.  False  tongue  of  woman  ! 

And  heart  more  false ! 

Prec.  Nay,  listen  unto  me. 

I will  speak  frankly.  I have  never  loved  thee ; 
I cannot  love  thee.  This  is  not  my  fault, 

It  is  my  destiny.  Thou  art  a man 
Restless  and  violent.  What  wouldst  thou  with 
me, 

A feeble  girl,  who  have  not  long  to  live, 
Whose  heart  is  broken?  Seek  another  wife, 
Better  than  I,  and  fairer ; and  let  not 
Thy  rash  and  headlong  moods  estrange  her 
from  thee. 

Thou  art  unhappy  in  this  hopeless  passion. 

I never  sought  thy  love  ; never  did  aught 
To  make  thee  love  me.  Yet  I pity  thee, 
And  most  of  all  I pity  thy  wild  heart, 

That  hurries  thee  to  crimes  and  deeds  of  blood. 
Beware,  beware  of  that. 

Bart.  For  thy  dear  sake 

I will  be  gentle.  Thou  slialt  teach  me  pa- 
tience. 

Prec.  Then  take  this  farewell,  and  depart 
in  peace. 

Thou  must  not  linger  here. 

Bart.  Come,  come  with  me. 

Prec.  Hark ! I hear  footsteps. 

Bart.  I entreat  thee,  come  ! 

Prec.  Away  ! It  is  in  vain. 

Bart.  Wilt  thou  not  come  ? 

Prec.  Never  ! 

Bart.  Then  woe,  eternal  woe, 

upon  thee ! 

Thou  slialt  not  be  another’s.  Thou  shaft  die. 

[Exit. 

Prec.  All  holy  angels  keep  me  in  this  hour  ! 
Spirit  of  her  who  bore  me,  look  upon  me  ! 
Mother  of  God,  the  glorified,  protect  me  ! 
Christ  and  the  saints,  be  merciful  unto  me  ! 
Yet  why  should  I fear  death?  What  is  it  to 
die? 

To  leave  all  disappointment,  care,  and  sorrow, 
To  leave  all  falsehood,  treachery,  and  unkind- 
ness, 

All  ignominy,  suffering,  and  despair, 


And  be  at  rest  forever  ! O dull  heart, 

Be  of  good  cheer ! When  thou  slialt  cease  to 
beat, 

Then  slialt  thou  cease  to  suffer  and  complain 

( Enter  Victorian  and  Hypoi.ito  behind.) 

Viet.  ’T  is  she  ! Behold,  how  beautiful  she 
stands 

Under  the  tent-like  trees ! 

Hyp.  A woodland  nymph 

Viet.  I pray  thee,  stand  aside.  Leave  me. 
Hyp.  Be  wary. 

Do  not  betray  thyself  too  soon. 

Viet.  ( disguising  his  voice').  Hist  ! Gypsy  ! 
Prec.  ( aside , with  emotion).  That  voice  ! 
that  voice  from  heaven ! Oh  speak  again  ! 
Who  is  it  calls  ? 

Viet.  A friend. 

Prec.  ( aside ).  ’T  is  he  ! ’T  is  he  ! 

I thank  thee,  Heaven,  that  thou  hast  heard  my 
prayer, 

And  sent  me  this  protector ! Now  be  strong, 
Be  strong,  my  heart ! I must  dissemble  here. 
False  friend  or  true? 

Viet.  A true  friend  to  the  true  ; 

Fear  not ; come  hither.  So  ; can  you  tell  for- 
tunes ? 

Prec.  Not  in  the  dark.  Come  nearer  to  the 
fire. 

Give  me  your  hand.  It  is  not  crossed,  I see. 
Viet.  ( putting  a piece  of  gold  into  her  hand). 

There  is  the  cross. 

Prec.  Is ’t  silver  ? 

Viet.  No,  ’t  is  gold. 

Prec.  There  ’s  a fair  lady  at  the  Court,  who 
loves  you, 

And  for  yourself  alone. 

Viet.  Fie  ! the  old  story ! 

Tell  me  a better  fortune  for  my  money  ; 

Not  this  old  woman’s  tale  ! 

Prec.  You  are  passionate  ; 

And  this  same  passionate  humor  in  your  blood 
Has  marred  your  fortune.  Yes;  I see  it  now; 
The  line  of  life  is  crossed  by  many  marks. 
Shame  ! shame  ! Oh  you  have  wronged  the 
maid  who  loved  you  ! 

How  could  you  do  it  ? 

Viet.  I never  loved  a maid : 

For  she  I loved  was  then  a maid  no  more. 
Prec.  How  know  you  that  ? 


112 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Viet.  A little  bird  in  the  air 

Whispered  the  secret. 

Pi  •ec.  There,  take  back  your  gold  ! 

Your  hand  is  cold,  like  a deceiver’s  hand  ! 
There  is  no  blessing  in  its  charity  ! 

Make  her  your  wife,  for  you  have  been  abused ; 
And  you  shall  mend  your  fortunes,  mending 
hers. 

Viet.  ( aside ).  How  like  an  angel’s  speaks 
the  tongue  of  woman, 

When  pleading  in  another's  cause  her  own  ! 
That  is  a pretty  ring  upon  your  finger. 

Pray  give  it  me.  ( Tries  to  take  the  ring.') 

Prec.  No  ; never  from  my  hand 

Shall  that  be  taken  ! 

Viet.  Why,  ’t  is  but  a ring. 

I ’ll  give  it  back  to  you  ; or,  if  I keep  it, 
Will  give  you  gold  to  buy  you  twenty  such. 
P>  •ec.  Why  would  you  have  this  ring  ? 
Viet.  A traveller’s  fancy, 

A whim,  and  nothing  more.  I would  fain 
keep  it 

As  a momento  of  the  Gypsy  camp 
In  Guadarrama,  and  the  fortune-teller 
Who  sent  me  back  to  wed  a widowed  maid. 
Pray,  let  me  have  the  ring. 


Prec.  No,  never  ! never  ! 

I will  not  part  with  it,  even  when  I die  ; 

But  bid  my  nurse  fold  my  pale  fingers  thus, 
That  it  may  not  fall  from  them.  ’T  is  a token 
Of  a beloved  friend,  who  is  no  more. 

Viet.  How  ? dead  ? 

Prec.  Yes;  dead  to  me  ; and  worse  than  dead. 
He  is  estranged ! And  yet  I keep  this  ring. 
I will  rise  with  it  from  my  grave  hereafter, 
To  prove  to  him  that  I was  never  false. 

Viet,  (aside).  Be  still,  my  swelling  heart! 
one  moment,  still ! 

Why,  ’t  is  the  folly  of  a love-sick  girl. 

Come,  give  it  me,  or  I will  say  t is  mine, 
And  that  you  stole  it. 

Prec.  Oh,  you  will  not  dare 

To  utter  such  a falsehood ! 

Viet.  I not  dare? 

Look  in  my  face,  and  say  if  there  is  aught 
I have  not  dared,  I would  not  dare  for  thee ! 
(She  rushes  into  his  arms.) 

Prec.  ’T  is  thou  ! ’t  is  thou  ! Yes  ; yes  ; 
my  heart’s  elected  ! 

My  dearest-dear  Victorian  ! my  soul's  heaven  ! 
Where  hast  thou  been  so  long  ? Why  didst 
thou  leave  me? 


HE  NR  Y WADS  WOR  TH  L ONGFELL  O W. 


113 


Viet.  Ask  me  not  now,  my  dearest  Preciosa. 
Let  me  forget  we  ever  have  been  parted ! 

Pi  'ec.  Hadst  thou  not  come  — 

Viet.  I pray  thee,  do  not  chide  me ! 

Pi  ~ec.  I should  have  perished  here  among 
these  Gypsies. 

Viet.  Forgive  me,  sweet!  for  what  I made 
thee  suffer. 

Think'st  thou  this  heart  could  feel  a moment’s 

joy* 

Thou  being  absent  ? Oh,  believe  it  not ! 
Indeed,  since  that  sad  hour  I have  not  slept, 
For  thinking  of  the  wrong  I did  to  thee  ! 
Dost  thou  forgive  me  ? Say,  wilt  thou  for- 
give me? 

Pi  •ec.  I have  forgiven  thee.  Ere  those 
words  of  anger 

Were  in  the  book  of  Heaven  writ  down  against 
thee, 

I had  forgiven  thee. 

Viet.  I m the  veriest  fool 

That  walks  the  earth,  to  have  believed  thee 
false. 

It  was  the  Count  of  Lara  — 

Pi  *ec.  That  bad  man 

Has  worked  me  harm  enough.  Hast  thou  not 
heard  — 

Viet.  I have  heard  all.  And  yet  speak  on, 
speak  on  ! 

Let  me  but  hear  thy  voice,  and  I am  happy  ; 
For  every  tone,  like  some  sweet  incantation, 
Calls  up  the  buried  past  to  plead  for  me. 
Speak,  my  beloved,  speak  into  my  heart, 
Whatever  fills  and  agitates  thine  own. 

( They  walk  aside.) 

Hyp.  All  gentle  quarrels  in  the  pastoral 
poets, 

All  passionate  love-scenes  in  the  best  romances. 
All  chaste  embraces  on  the  public  stage, 

All  soft  adventures,  which  the  liberal  stars 
Have  winked  at,  as  the  natural  course  of 
things, 

Have  been  surpassed  here  by  my  friend,  the 
student, 

And  this  sweet  Gypsy  lass,  fair  Preciosa  ! 

Prec.  Senor  Hypolito  ! I kiss  your  hand. 
Pray,  shall  I tell  your  fortune? 

Hyp.  Not  to-night; 

For,  should  you  treat  me  as  you  did  Victorian, 
And  send  me  back  to  marry  maids  forlorn, 

15 


My  wedding  day  would  last  from  now  till 
Christmas. 

Chispa  (within).  What  ho ! the  Gypsies, 
ho  ! Beltran  Cruzado  ! 

Halloo  ! halloo  ! halloo  ! halloo  ! 

( Enters  booted , with  a whip  and  lantern.) 

Viet.  What  now  ? 

Why  such  a fearful  din  ? Hast  thou  been 
robbed  ? 

Chispa.  Ay,  robbed  and  murdered ; and 
good  evening  to  you, 

My  worthy  masters. 

Viet.  Speak ; what  brings  thee  here  ? 
Chispa  (to  Preciosa).  Good  news  from 
Court ; good  news  ! Beltran  Cruzado, 
The  Count  of  the  Cales,  is  not  your  father, 
But  your  true  father  has  returned  to  Spain 
Laden  with  wealth.  You  are  no  more  a 
Gypsy. 

Viet.  Strange  as  a Moorish  tale  ! 

Chispa.  And  we  have  all 

Been  drinking  at  the  tavern  to  your  health, 
As  wells  drink  in  November,  when  it  rains. 
Viet.  Where  is  the  gentleman  ? 

Chispa.  As  the  old  song  says, 

His  body  is  in  Segovia, 

His  soul  is  in  Madrid. 

Prec.  Is  this  a dream  ? Oh,  if  it  be  a dream, 
Let  me  sleep  on,  and  do  not  wake  me  yet ! 
Repeat  thy  story  ! Say  I ’m  not  deceived  ! 
Say  that  I do  not  dream ! I am  awake  ; 

This  is  the  Gypsy  camp  ; this  is  Victorian, 
And  this  his  friend,  Hypolito  ! Speak  ! speak  ! 
Let  me  not  wake  and  find  it  all  a dream  ! 
Viet.  It  is  a dream,  sweet  child ! a waking 
dream, 

A blissful  certainty,  a vision  bright 
Of  that  rare  happiness,  which  even  on  earth 
Heaven  gives  to  those  it  loves.  Now  art  thou 
rich, 

As  thou  wast  ever  beautiful  and  good ; 

And  I am  now  the  beggar. 

Prec.  (giving  him  her  hand)).  I have  still 
A hand  to  give. 

Chispa  (aside).  And  I have  two  to  take. 
I ’ve  heard  my  grandmother  say,  that  Heaven 
gives  almonds 

To  those  who  have  no  teeth.  That ’s  nuts  to 
crack. 


114 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


I ’ve  teeth  to  spare,  but  where  shall  I find 
almonds  ? 

Viet.  What  more  of  this  strange  story? 
Chispa.  Nothing  more. 

Your  friend,  Don  Carlos,  is  now  at  the  village 
Showing  to  Pedro  Crespo,  the  Alcalde, 

The  proofs  of  what  I tell  you.  The  old  hag, 
Who  stole  you  in  your  childhood,  has  con- 
fessed ; 

And  probably  they  ’ll  hang  her  for  the  crime, 
To  make  the  celebration  more  complete. 

Viet.  No;  let  it  be  a day  of  general  joy; 
Fortune  comes  well  to  all,  that  comes  not  late. 
Now  let  us  join  Don  Carlos. 

Hyp.  So  farewell, 

The  student’s  wandering  life  ! Sweet  sere- 
nades, 

Sung  under  ladies’  windows  in  the  night, 

And  all  that  makes  vacation  beautiful ! 

To  you,  ye  cloistered  shades  of  Aleald, 

To  you,  ye  radiant  visions  of  romance, 
Written  in  books,  but  here  surpassed  by  truth, 
The  Bachelor  Hypolito  returns, 

And  leaves  the  Gypsy  with  the  Spanish  Stu- 
dent. 


Scene  VI.  — A pass  in  the  Guadarrama  mountains. 
Early  morning.  A muleteer  crosses  the  stage,  sitting 
sideways  on  his  mule,  and  lighting  a paper  cigar  with 
flint  and  steel. 

SONG. 

If  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden, 

Awake  and  open  thy  door, 

’T  is  the  break  of  day,  and  we  must  away 
O’er  meadow,  and  mount,  and  moor. 

Wait  not  to  find  thy  slippers, 

But  come  with  thy  naked  feet ; 

We  shall  have  to  pass  through  the  dewy  grass, 
And  waters  wide  and  fleet. 

( Disappears  down  the  pass.  Enter  a Monk.  A Shepherd 
appears  on  the  rocks  above.') 

Monk.  Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena.  Ola ! good 
man  ! 

Shep.  Ola ! 

Monk.  Is  this  the  road  to  Segovia  ? 

Shep.  It  is,  your  reverence. 

Monk.  How  far  is  it  ? 

Shep.  I do  not  know. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


113 


Monk.  What  is  that  yonder  in  the  valley  ? 
Sliep.  San  Ildefonso. 

Monk.  A long  way  to  breakfast. 

Shop.  Ay,  marry. 

Monk.  Are  there  robbers  in  these  moun- 
tains ? 

Shop.  Yes,  and  worse  than  that. 

Monk.  What  ? 

Shop.  Wolves. 

Monk.  Santa  Maria  ! Come  with  me  to  San 
Ildefonso,  and  thou  slialt  be  well  rewarded. 
Sliep.  What  wilt  thou  give  me  ? 

Monk.  An  Agnus  Dei  and  my  benediction. 


{They  disappear.  A mounted  Contrahandista  passes, 
wrapped  in  his  cloak,  and  a yun  ut  his  sudd/e-bow.  He 
goes  down  the  pass  singing .) 

SONG. 

Worn  with  speed  is  my  good  steed, 

And  I march  me  hurried,  worried ; 

Onward,  caballito  mio, 

With  the  white  star  in  thy  forehead.' 

Onward,  for  here  comes  the  Honda, 

And  I hear  their  rifles  crack  ! 

Ay,  jaleo  ! Ay,  ay,  jaleo  ! 

Ay,  jaleo  ! They  cross  our  track. 

( Song  dies  away.  Enter  Preciosa.  on  horseback,  at- 
tended by  Victorian,  IIypolito,  Don  Carlos,  and 
Chispa,  on  foot,  and  armed.) 


Viet.  This  is  the  highest  point.  Here  let 
us  rest. 

See,  Preciosa,  see  how  all  about  us 
Kneeling,  like  hooded  friars,  the  misty  moun- 
tains 


Receive  the  benediction  of  the  sun  ! 
O glorious  sight ! 


j Free.  Most  beautiful  indeed  ! 

Hyp.  Most  wonderful ! 

Viet.  And  in  the  vale  below, 

Where  yonder  steeples  flash  like  lifted  hal- 
berds, 

San  Ildefonso,  from  its  noisy  belfries, 

Sends  up  a salutation  to  the  morn, 

As  if  an  army  smote  their  brazen  shields, 
And  shouted  victory ! 

Free.  And  which  way  lies 

Segovia  ? 

Viet.  At  a great  distance  yonder 

Dost  thou  not  see  it? 

Free.  No.  I do  not  see  it. 


Viet.  The  merest  flaw  that  dents  the  hori- 
zon’s edge, 

There,  yonder  ! 

Hyp.  ’T  is  a notable  old  town, 

Boasting  an  ancient  Roman  aqueduct, 

And  an  Alcazar,  builded  by  the  Moors, 
Wherein,  you  may  remember,  poor  Gil  Bias 
Was  fed  on  Fan  del  Fey.  Oh,  many  a time 
Out  of  its  grated  windows  have  I looked 
Hundreds  of  feet  plumb  down  to  the  Eresma, 
That,  like  a serpent  through  the  valley  creep- 
ing, 

Glides  at  its  foot. 


116 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


Prec.  Oil  yes ! I see  it  now, 

Yet  rather  with  my  heart  than  with  mine  eyes, 
So  faint  it  is.  And  all  my  thoughts  sail 
thither, 

Freighted  with  prayers  and  hopes,  and  forward 
urged 

Against  all  stress  of  accident,  as  in 
The  Eastern  Tale,  against  the  wind  and  tide 
Great  ships  were  drawn  to  the  Magnetic 
Mountains, 

And  there  were  wrecked,  and  perished  in  the 
sea ! (She  weeps.') 

Viet.  O gentle  spirit ! Thou  didst  bear  un- 
moved 

Blasts  of  adversity  and  frosts  of  fate  ! 

But  the  first  ray  of  sunshine  that  falls  on  thee 
Melts  thee  to  tears  ! Oh,  let  thy  weary  heart 
Lean  upon  mine ! and  it  shall  faint  no  more, 
Nor  thirst,  nor  hunger;  but  be  comforted 
And  filled  with  my  affection. 

Free.  Stay  no  longer  ! 

My  father  waits.  Methinks  I see  him  there, 
Now  looking  from  the  window,  and  now  watch- 
ing 

Each  sound  of  wheels  or  footfall  in  the  street, 
And  saying,  “ Hark  ! she  comes  ! ” O father  ! 
father ! 


( They  descend  the  pass.  Chispa  remains  behind.) 
Chispa.  I have  a father,  too,  but  he  is  a 
dead  one.  Alas  and  alack-a-day ! Poor  was 
I born,  and  poor  do  I remain.  I neither  win 
nor  lose.  Thus  I wag  through  the  world,  half 
the  time  on  foot,  and  the  other  half  walking ; 
and  always  as  merry  as  a thunder-storm  in  the 
• night.  And  so  we  plough  along,  as  the  fly 
said  to  the  ox.  Who  knows  what  may  hap- 
pen ? Patience,  and  shuffle  the  cards  ! I am 
not  yet  so  bald  that  you  can  see  my  brains  ; 
and  perhaps,  after  all,  I shall  some  day  go  to 
Rome,  and  come  back  Saint  Peter.  Benedi- 
cite ! (Exit. 

( A pause.  Then  enter  Bartolom^  wildly,  as  if  in  pur- 
suit, with  a carbine  in  his  hand.) 

Bart.  They  passed  this  way.  I hear  then- 
horses’  hoofs  ! 

Yonder  I see  them ! Come,  sweet  caramillo, 
This  serenade  shall  be  the  Gypsy’s  last ! 

(Fires  down  the  pass.) 

Ida!  ha!  Well  whistled,  my  sweet  caramillo! 
Well  whistled  ! — I have  missed  her ! — O my 
God  ! 

( The  shot  is  returned.  Bartolom£  falls.) 


CARILLON. 


In  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges, 

In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city, 

As  the  evening  shades  descended, 

Low  and  loud  and  sweetly  blended, 
Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times, 

And  changing  like  a poet’s  rhymes, 
Rang  the  beautiful  wild  chimes 
From  the  Belfry  in  the  market 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

Then,  with  deep  sonorous  clangor 
Calmly  answering  their  sweet  anger, 
When  the  wrangling  bells  had  ended. 
Slowly  struck  the  clock  eleven. 

And,  from  out  the  silent  heaven. 
Silence  on  the  town  descended. 
Silence,  silence  everywhere, 

On  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 

Save  that  footsteps  here  and  there 
Of  some  burgher  home  returning, 

By  the  street  lamps  faintly  burning, 
For  a moment  woke  the  echoes 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

But  amid  my  broken  slumbers 
Still  I heard  those  magic  numbers, 

As  they  loud  proclaimed  the  flight 
And  stolen  marches  of  the  night ; 

Till  their  chimes  in  sweet  collision 
Mingled  with  each  wandering  vision. 
Mingled  with  the  fortune-telling 
Gypsy-bands  of  dreams  and  fancies, 
Which  amid  the  waste  expanses 
Of  the  silent  land  of  trances 
Have  their  solitary  dwelling ; 

All  else  seemed  asleep  in  Bruges, 

In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 


And  I thought  how  like  these  chimes 
Are  the  poet’s  airy  rhymes, 

All  his  rhymes  and  roundelays, 

His  conceits,  and  songs,  and  ditties, 
From  the  belfry  of  his  brain, 

Scattered  downward,  though  in  vain, 

On  the  roofs  and  stones  of  cities  ! 

For  by  night  the  drowsy  ear 
Under  its  curtains  cannot  hear, 

And  by  day  men  go  their  ways, 
Hearing  the  music  as  they  pass, 

But  deeming  it  no  more,  alas ! 

Than  the  hollow  sound  of  brass. 

Yet  perchance  a sleepless  wight, 
Lodging  at  some  humble  inn 
In  the  narrow  lanes  of  life, 

When  the  dusk  and  husk  of  night 
Shut  out  the  incessant  din 
Of  daylight  and  its  toil  and  strife, 

May  listen  with  a calm  delight 
To  the  poet's  melodies, 

Till  he  hears,  or  dreams  he  hears, 
Intermingled  with  the  song, 

Thoughts  that  he  has  cherished  long  ; 
Hears  amid  the  chime  and  singing 
The  bells  of  his  own  village  ringing, 
And  wakes,  and  finds  his  slumberous 
eyes 

Wet  with  most  delicious  tears. 

Thus  dreamed  I,  as  by  night  I lay 
In  Bruges,  at  the  Fleur-de-Ble, 
Listening  with  a wild  delight 
To  the  chimes  that,  through  the  night, 
Rang  their  changes  from  the  Belfry 
Of  that  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 


120 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES. 


In  the  market-place  of  Bruges  stands  the  bel- 
fry old  and  brown  ; 

Thrice  consumed  and  thrice  rebuilded,  still  it 
watches  o'er  the  town. 

As  the  summer  morn  was  breaking,  on  that 
lofty  tower  I stood, 

And  the  world  threw  off  the  darkness,  like  the 
weeds  of  widowhood. 

Thick  with  towns  and  hamlets  studded,  and 
with  streams  and  vapors  gray, 

Like  a shield  embossed  with  silver,  round  and 
vast  the  landscape  lay. 

At  my  feet  the  city  slumbered.  From  its 
chimneys,  here  and  there, 

Wreaths  of  snow-white  smoke,  ascending,  van- 
ished, ghost-like,  into  air. 

Not  a sound  rose  from  the  city  at  that  early 
morning  hour, 

But  I heard  a heart  of  iron  beating  in  the 
ancient  tower. 

From  their  nests  beneath  the  lafteis  sang  the 
swallows  Avild  and  high  ; 

And  the  world,  beneath  me  sleeping,  seemed 
more  distant  than  the  sky. 

Then  most  musical  and  solemn,  bringing  back 
the  olden  times, 

With  their  strange,  unearthly  changes  rang  the 
melancholy  chimes, 

Like  the  psalms  from  some  old  cloister,  when 
the  nuns  sing  in  the  choir  ; 

And  the  great  bell  tolled  among  them,  like 
the  chanting  of  a friar. 

Visions  of  the  days  departed,  shadowy  phan- 
toms filled  my  brain  ; 

They  who  live  in  history  only  seemed  to  walk 
the  earth  again  ; 


All  the  Foresters  of  Flanders,  — mighty  Bald- 
win Bras  de  Fer, 

Lyderick  du  Bucq  and  Cressy,  Philip,  Guy  de 
Dampierre. 

I beheld  the  pageants  splendid  that  adorned 
those  days  of  old  ; 

Stately  dames,  like  queens  attended,  knights 
who  bore  the  Fleece  of  Gold; 

Lombard  and  Venetian  merchants  with  deep- 
laden argosies  ; 

Ministers  from  twenty  nations  ; more  than 
royal  pomp  and  ease. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


121 


I beheld  proud  Maximilian,  kneeling  humbly 
on  the  ground ; 

I beheld  the  gentle  Mary,  hunting  with  her 
hawk  and  hound  ; 

And  her  lighted  bridal-chamber,  where  a duke 
slept  with  the  queen, 

And  the  armed  guard  around  them,  and  the 
sword  unsheathed  between. 

I beheld  the  Flemish  weavers,  with  Namur  and 
Juliers  bold, 

Marching  homeAvard  from  the  bloody  battle  of 
the  Spurs  of  Gold  ; 

Saw  the  fight  at  Minnewater,  saw  the  White 
Hoods  moving  west, 

Saw  great  Artevelde  victorious  scale  the  Golden 
Dragon’s  nest. 


And  again  the  whiskered  Spaniard  all  the  land 
with  terror  smote ; 

And  again  the  wild  alarum  sounded  from  the 
tocsin’s  throat; 

Till  the  bell  of  Ghent  responded  o’er  lagoon 
and  dike  of  sand, 

“ I am  Roland  ! I am  Roland  ! there  is  victory 
in  the  land  ! ” 

Then  the  sound  of  drums  aroused  me.  The 
awakened  city’s  roar 

Chased  the  phantoms  I had  summoned  back 
into  their  graves  once  more. 

Hours  had  passed  away  like  minutes  ; and,  be- 
fore I was  aware, 

Lo ! the  shadow  of  the  belfry  crossed  the  sun- 
illumined  square. 


A GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE. 


This  is  the  place.  Stand  still,  my  steed. 
Let  me  review  the  scene, 

And  summon  from  the  shadowy  Past 
The  forms  that  once  have  been. 


The  Past  and  Present  here  unite 
Beneath  Time’s  flowing  tide, 
Like  footprints  hidden  by  a brook, 
But  seen  on  either  side. 


iu 


122 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Here  runs  the  highway  to  the  town ; 

There  the  green  lane  descends, 

Through  which  I walked  to  church  with  thee, 
O gentlest  of  my  friends ! 

The  shadow  of  the  linden  trees 
Lay  moving  on  the  grass ; 

Between  them  and  the  moving  boughs, 

A shadow,  thou  didst  pass. 

Thy  dress  was  like  the  lilies, 

And  thy  heart  as  pure  as  they : 

One  of  God's  holy  messengers 
Did  walk  with  me  that  day. 

I saw  the  branches  of  the  trees 
Bend  down  thy  touch  to  meet, 

The  clover-blossoms  in  the  grass 
Rise  up  to  kiss  thy  feet. 

“ Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares, 

Of  earth  and  folly  horn  ! ” 

Solemnly  sang  the  village  choir 
On  that  sweet  Sabbath  morn. 

Through  the  closed  blinds  the  golden  sun 
Poured  in  a dusty  beam, 

Like  the  celestial  ladder  seen 
By  Jacob  in  his  dream. 


THE  ARSENAL 

This  is  the  Arsenal.  From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms ; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  peal- 
ing 

Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah ! what  a sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and 
dreary, 

When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift 
keys  ! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies  ! 

I hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 


And  ever  and  anon,  the  wind 
Sweet-scented  with  the  hay, 

Turned  o’er  the  hymn-book's  fluttering  leaves 
That  on  the  window  lay. 

Long  -was  the  good  man’s  sermon, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me ; 

For  he  spake  of  Ruth  the  beautiful, 

And  still  1 thought  of  thee. 

Long  was  the  prayer  lie  uttered, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me  ; 

For  in  my  heart  I prayed  with  him, 

And  still  I thought  of  thee. 

But  now,  alas ! the  place  seems  changed ; 
Thou  art  no  longer  here : 

Part  of  the  sunshine  of  the  scene 
With  thee  did  disappear. 

Though  thoughts,  deep-rooted  in  my  heart, 
Like  pine  trees  dark  and  high, 

Subdue  the  light  of  noon,  and  breathe 
A low  and  ceaseless  sigh  ; 

This  memory  brightens  o’er  the  past, 

As  when  the  sun,  concealed 

Behind  some  cloud  that  near  us  hangs, 

Shines  on  a distant  field. 


AT  SPRINGFIELD. 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before 
us, 

In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 
Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman's 
song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O’er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpent’s 
skin  ; 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


123 


The  tumult  of  eacli  sacked  and  burning  vil- 
lage ; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy 
drowns  ; 

The  soldiers’  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched 
asunder, 

The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade  ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 

The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  O man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 

With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature’s  sweet  and  kindly 
voices, 

And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  power,  that  fills  the  world  with 
terror, 

Were  half  the  wealth  bestowed  on  camps 
and  courts, 


Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts : 

The  warrior’s  name  would  be  a name  abhorred  ! 
And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 

Its  hand  against  a brother,  on  its  forehead 
Would  wear  forevermore  the  curse  of  Cain  ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  genera- 
tions, 

The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then 
cease ; 

And  like  a bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 
I hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say, 
“ Peace  ! ” 

Peace  ! and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  War’s  great  organ  shakes  the 
skies ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 

The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


NUREMBERG. 


In  the  valley  of  the  Pegnitz,  where  across 
broad  meadow-lands 

Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains,  Nurem- 
berg, the  ancient,  stands. 

Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  traffic,  quaint  old 
town  of  art  and  song, 

Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables,  like  the 
rooks  that  round  them  throng  : 

Memories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  em- 
perors, rough  and  bold, 

Had  their  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time-defying, 
centuries  old  ; 

And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boasted, 
in  their  uncouth  rhyme, 

That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched  its 
hand  through  every  clime. 

In  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  bound  with 
many  an  iron  band, 


124 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Stands  the  mighty  linden  planted  by  Queen 
Cunigunde’s  hand ; 

On  the  square  the  oriel  window,  where  in  old 
heroic  days 

Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser  Maxi- 
milian’s praise. 

Everywhere  I see  around  me  rise  the  wondrous 
world  of  Art : 

Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture  stand- 
ing in  the  common  mart ; 

And  above  cathedral  doorways  saints  and 
bishops  carved  in  stone, 

By  a former  age  commissioned  as  apostles  to 
our  own. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  en- 
shrined his  holy  dust, 

And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard 
from  age  to  age  their  trust ; 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a 
pix  of  sculpture  rare, 

Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising 
through  the  painted  air. 


Here,  when  Art  was  still  religion,  with  a sim- 
ple,  reverent  heart, 

Lived  and  labored  Albrecht  Diirer,  the  Evan- 
gelist of  Art ; 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still 
with  busy  hand, 

Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking  for  the 
Better  Land. 

JEmigravit  is  the  inscription  on  the  tomb-stone 
where  he  lies  ; 

Dead  he  is  not,  but  departed,  — for  the  artist 
never  dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sunshine 
seems  more  fair, 

That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement,  that  he 
once  has  breathed  its  air  ! 

Through  these  streets  so  broad  and  stately, 
these  obscui'e  and  dismal  lanes, 

Walked  of  yore  the  Mastersingers,  chanting 
rude  poetic  strains. 

From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs  came  they 
to  the  friendly  guild, 

Building  nests  in  Fame’s  great  temple,  as  in 
spouts  the  swallows  build. 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he  too 
the  mystic  rhyme, 

And  the  smith  his  iron  measures  hammered 
to  the  anvil’s  chime  ; 

Thanking  God,  whose  boundless  wisdom  makes 
the  flowers  of  poesy  bloom 

In  the  forge’s  dust  and  cinders,  in  the  tissues 
of  the  loom. 

Here  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler-jxoet,  laureate 
of  the  gentle  craft, 

Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  in  huge 
folios  sang  and  laughed. 

But  his  house  is  now  an  ale-house,  with  a 
nicely  sanded  flooi’, 

And  a garland  in  the  window,  and  his  face 
above  the  door ; 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


125 


Painted  by  some  humble  artist,  as  in  Adam 
Puschman’s  song, 

As  the  old  man  gray  and  dove-like,  with  his 
great  beard  white  and  long. 

And  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  comes  to 
drown  his  cark  and  care, 

Quaffing  ale  from  pewter  tankards,  in  the 
master’s  antique  chair. 

Vanished  is  the  ancient  splendor,  and  before 
my  dreamy  eye 

Wave  these  mingled  shapes  and  figures,  like 
a faded  tapestry. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers,  win  for 
thee  the  world’s  regard ; 

But  thy  painter,  Albrecht  Diirer,  and  Hans 
Sachs  thy  cobbler  bard. 

Thus,  O Nuremberg,  a wanderer  from  a region 
far  away, 

As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  court-yards,  sang 
in  thought  his  careless  lay: 

Gathering  from  the  pavement’s  crevice,  as  a 
floweret  of  the  soil, 

The  nobility  of  labor,  — the  long  pedigree  of 
toil. 


THE  NORMAN  BARON. 


l)ans  les  moments  de  la  vie  oil  la  reflexion  devient  plus  calme  et  plus  profonde,  oil  l’interet  et  l’avarice  parlent  moins 
liaut  que  la  raison,  dans  les  instants  de  chagrin  domestique,  de  maladie,  et  de  peril  de  mort,  les  nobles  se  repentirent  de 
posseder  des  serfs,  comme  d’une  chose  peu  agreable  a Dieu,  qui  avait  cree  tous  les  homines  a son  image. 

Thierry,  Conquete  de  V Angleterre. 


In  his  chamber,  weak  and  dying, 

Was  the  Norman  baron  lying ; 

Loud,  without,  the  tempest  thundered, 
And  the  castle-turret  shook. 

In  this  fight  was  Death  the  gainer, 
Spite  of  vassal  and  retainer, 

And  the  lands  his  sires  had  plundered, 
Written  in  the  Doomsday  Book. 


By  his  bed  a monk  was  seated, 

Who  in  humble  voice  repeated 
Many  a prayer  and  pater-noster, 

From  the  missal  on  his  knee; 

And,  amid  the  tempest  pealing, 

Sounds  of  bells  came  faintly  stealing, 
Bells,  that  from  the  neighboring  kloster 
Rang  for  the  Nativity. 


126 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


In  the  hall,  the  serf  and  vassal 

Held,  that  night,  their  Christmas  wassail ; 

Many  a carol,  old  and  saintly, 

Sang  the  minstrels  and  the  waits  ; 

And  so  loud  these  Saxon  gleemen 
Sang  to  slaves  the  songs  of  freemen, 

That  the  storm  was  heard  but  faintly, 
Knocking  at  the  castle-gates. 

Till  at  length  the  lays  they  chanted 
Reached  the  chamber  terror-haunted, 
Where  the  monk,  with  accents  holy, 
Whispered  at  the  baron’s  ear. 

Tears  upon  his  eyelids  glistened, 

As  he  paused  awhile  and  listened, 

And  the  dying  baron  slowly 

Turned  his  weary  head  to  hear. 

“ Wassail  for  the  kingly  stranger 
Born  and  cradled  in  a manger  ! 

King,  like  David,  priest,  like  Aaron, 
Christ  is  born  to  set  us  free  ! ” 

And  the  lightning  showed  the  sainted 
Figures  on  the  casement  painted, 

And  exclaimed  the  shuddering  baron, 

“ Miserere,  Domine  ! ” 


In  that  hour  of  deep  contrition 
He  beheld,  with  clearer  vision, 

Through  all  outward  show  and  fashion, 
Justice,  the  Avenger,  rise. 

All  the  pomp  of  earth  had  vanished, 
Falsehood  and  deceit  were  banished, 
Reason  spake  more  loud  than  passion, 
And  the  truth  wore  no  disguise. 

Every  vassal  of  his  banner, 

Every  serf  born  to  his  manor, 

All  those  wronged  and  wretched  creatui 
By  his  hand  were  freed  again. 

And,  as  on  the  sacred  missal 
He  recorded  their  dismissal, 

Death  relaxed  his  iron  features, 

And  the  monk  replied,  “ Amen  ! ’ 

Many  centuries  have  been  numbered 
Since  in  death  the  baron  slumbered 
By  the  convent’s  sculptured  portal, 

Mingling  with  the  common  dust : 

But  the  good  deed,  through  the  ages 
Living  in  historic  pages, 

Brighter  grows  and  gleams  immortal, 
Unconsumed  by  moth  or  rust. 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 


How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

After  the  dust  and  heat, 

In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 

In  the  narrow  lane, 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs, 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs  ! 

IIow  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 

From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout ! 

Across  the  window-pane 
It  pours  and  pours  ; 

And  swift  and  wide, 

With  a muddy  tide, 


Like  a river  down  the  gutter  roars 
The  rain,  the  welcome  rain  ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 
At  the  twisted  brooks  ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 
Breath  of  each  little  pool  ; 

His  fevered  brain 
Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighboring  school 
Come  the  boys, 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 
And  commotion  ; 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER 


m HSRArtf 

or  m 

CTET!TV  C?  ’/JJKB 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


127 


Aiul  down  the  wet  streets 
Sail  their  mimic  fleets, 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 
Ingulfs  them  in  its  whirling 
And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side, 

Where  far  and  wide, 

Like  a leopard's  tawny  and  spotted  hide, 
Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 
How  welcome  is  the  rain  ! 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand  ; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head, 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

They  silently  inhale 
The  clover-scented  gale, 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soil. 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man’s  spoken  word. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees, 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures,  and  his  fields  of  grain, 

As  they  bend  their  tops 
To  the  numberless  beating  drops 
Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 

These,  and  far  more  than  these, 


The  Poet  sees  ! 

He  can  behold 
Aquarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air; 

And  from  each  ample  fold 
Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 
Scattering  everywhere 
The  showery  rain, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 
Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told,  — 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said. 

For  his  thought,  that  never  stops, 

Follows  the  water-drops 
Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound, 

To  the  dreary  fountain-head 
Of  lakes  and  rivers  under  ground ; 

And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 

On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 
Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven, 

Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 

With  vision  clear, 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange, 

Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth, 
From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth  ; 
Till  glimpses  more  sublime 
Of  things,  unseen  before, 

Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  forevermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time. 


TO  A CHILD. 


Dear  child ! how  radiant  on  thy  mother’s  knee, 
With  merry-making  eyes  and  jocund  smiles, 
Thou  gazest  at  the  painted  tiles, 

Whose  figures  grace, 

With  many  a grotesque  form  and  face, 

The  ancient  chimney  of  thy  nursery  ! 


The  lady  with  the  gay  macaw, 

The  dancing  girl,  the  grave  bashaw 
With  bearded  lip  and  chin ; 

And,  leaning  idly  o’er  his  gate. 
Beneath  the  imperial  fan  of  state, 
The  Chinese  mandarin. 


128 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


The  tall  ships  passed  the  stormy  cape  , 

For  thee  in  foreign  lands  remote, 

Beneath  a burning,  tropic  clime, 

The  Indian  peasant,  chasing  the  wild  goat. 
Himself  as  swift  and  wild, 

In  falling,  clutched  the  frail  arbute, 

The  fibres  of  whose  shallow  root, 

Uplifted  from  the  soil,  betrayed 
The  silver  veins  beneath  it  laid, 

The  buried  treasures  of  the  miser,  Time. 


With  what  a look  of  proud  command 
Thou  shakest  in  thy  little  hand 
The  coral  rattle  with  its  silver  bells, 
Making  a merry  tune  ! 

Thousands  of  years  in  Indian  seas 
That  coral  grew,  by  slow  degrees, 
Until  some  deadly  and  wild  monsoon 
Dashed  it  on  Coromandel's  sand  ! 
Those  silver  bells 
Reposed  of  yore, 

As  shapeless  ore, 

Far  down  in  the  deep-sunken  wells 
Of  darksome  mines, 

In  some  obscure  and  sunless  place, 
Beneath  huge  Chimborazo’s  base, 

Or  Potosi’s  o’erhanging  pines  ! 

And  thus  for  thee,  O little  child, 
Through  many  a danger  and  escape, 


But,  lo  ! thy  door  is  left  ajar  ! 

Thou  hearest  footsteps  from  afar  ! 

And,  at  the  sound, 

Thou  turnest  round 

With  quick  arid  questioning  eyes, 

Like  one,  who,  in  a foreign  land, 

Beholds  on  every  hand 

Some  source  of  wonder  and  surprise  ! 

And,  restlessly,  impatiently, 

Thou  strivest,  strugglest,  to  be  free. 

The  four  walls  of  thy  nursery 
Are  now  like  prison  walls  to  thee. 

No  more  thy  mother’s  smiles, 

No  more  the  painted  tiles, 

Delight  thee,  nor  the  playthings  on  the  floor, 
That  won  thy  little,  beating  heart  before  ; 
Thou  strugglest  for  the  open  door. 


HENIl  Y WADS  WOR  TJI  L ONGFKL L 0 W. 


120 


Through  these  once  solitary  halls 
Thy  pattering  footstep  falls. 

The  sound  of  thy  merry  voice 
Makes  the  old  walls 
Jubilant,  and  they  rejoice 
With  the  joy  of  thy  young  heart, 

O'er  the  light  of  whose  gladness 
No  shadows  of  sadness 

From  the  sombre  background  of  memory  start. 

Once,  ah,  once,  within  these  walls, 

One  whom  memory  oft  recalls, 

The  Father  of  his  Country,  dwelt. 

And  yonder  meadows  broad  and  damp 
The  fires  of  the  besieging  camp 
Encircled  with  a burning  belt. 

Up  and  down  these  echoing  stairs, 

Heavy  with  the  weight  of  cares, 

Sounded  his  majestic  tread  ; 

Yes,  within  this  very  room 
Sat  he  in  those  hours  of  gloom, 

Weary  both  in  heart  and  head. 

But  what  are  these  grave  thoughts  to  thee  ? 
Out,  out ! into  the  open  air ! 

Thy  only  dream  is  liberty, 

Thou  carest  little  how  or  where. 


1 see  thee  eager  at  thy  play, 

Now  shouting  to  the  apples  on  the  tree, 

With  cheeks  as  round  and  red  as  they ; 

And  now  among  the  yellow  stalks, 

Among  the  flowering  shrubs  and  plants, 

As  restless  as  the  bee. 

Along  the  garden  walks, 

The  tracks  of  thy  small  carriage-wheels  I trace; 
And  see  at  every  turn  how  they  efface 
Whole  villages  of  sand-roofed  tents, 

That  rise  like  golden  domes 

Above  the  cavernous  and  secret  homes 

Of  wandering  and  nomadic  tribes  of  ants. 

Ah,  cruel  little  Tamerlane, 

Who,  with  thy  dreadful  reign, 

Dost  persecute  and  overwhelm 

These  hapless  Troglodytes  of  thy  realm  ! 

What ! tired  already ! with  those  suppliant 
looks, 

And  voice  more  beautiful  than  a poet’s  books, 
Or  murmuring  sound  of  water  as  it  flows, 
Thou  contest  back  to  parley  with  repose  ! 
This  rustic  seat  in  the  old  apple-tree, 

With  its  o’erhanging  golden  canopy 
Of  leaves  illuminate  with  autumnal  hues, 
And  shining  with  the  argent  light  of  dews, 


130 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Shall  for  a season  be  our  place  of  rest. 
Beneath  us,  like  an  oriole’s  pendent  nest, 
From  which  the  laughing  birds  have  taken 
wing, 

By  thee  abandoned,  hangs  thy  vacant  swing. 
Dream-like  the  waters  of  the  river  gleam  ; 

A sailless  vessel  drops  adown  the  stream, 
And  like  it,  to  a sea  as  wide  and  deep. 

Thou  driftest  gently  down  the  tides  of  sleep. 

0 child!  ()  new-born  denizen 
Of  life’s  great  city  ! on  thy  head 
The  glory  of  the  morn  is  shed, 

Like  a celestial  benison  ! 

Here  at  the  portal  thou  dost  stand, 

And  with  thy  little  hand 

Thou  openest  the  mysterious  gate 

Into  the  future’s  undiscovered  land. 

1 see  its  valves  expand, 

As  at  the  touch  of  Fate  ! 

into  those  realms  of  love  and  hate, 

Into  that  darkness  blank  and  drear, 

By  some  prophetic  feeling  taught, 

I launch  the  bold,  adventurous  thought, 
Freighted  with  hope  and  fear  : 

As  upon  subterranean  streams, 

In  caverns  unexplored  and  dark, 

Men  sometimes  launch  a fragile  bark, 

Laden  with  flickering  fire, 

And  watch  its  swift-receding  beams, 

Until  at  length  they  disappear, 

And  in  the  distant  dark  expire. 

By  what  astrology  of  fear  or  hope 
Dare  I to  cast  thy  horoscope  ! 
kike  the  new  moon  thy  life  appears  ; 

A little  strip  of  silver  light, 

And  widening  outward  into  night 
The  shadowy  disk  of  future  years  ; 

And  yet  upon  its  outer  rim, 

A luminous  circle,  faint  and  dim. 

And  scarcely  visible  to  us  here, 

Rounds  and  completes  the  perfect  sphere  ; 

A prophecy  and  intimation, 

A pale  and  feeble  adumbration, 

Of  the  great  world  of  light,  that  lies 
Behind  all  human  destinies. 

Ah  ! if  thy  fate,  with  anguish  fraught, 

Should  be  to  wet  the  dusty  soil 


With  the  hot  tears  and  sweat  of  toil,  — 
To  struggle  with  imperious  thought, 

Until  the  overburdened  brain, 

Weary  with  labor,  faint  with  pain. 

Like  a jarred  pendulum,  retain 
Only  its  motion,  not  its  power,  — 
Remember,  in  that  perilous  hour, 

When  most  afflicted  and  oppressed, 

From  labor  there  shall  come  forth  rest. 

And  if  a more  auspicious  fate 
On  thy  advancing  steps  await. 

Still  let  it  ever  be  thy  pride 
To  linger  by  the  laborer’s  side; 

With  words  of  sympathy  or  song 
To  cheer  the  dreary  march  along 
Of  the  great  army  of  the  poor, 

O’er  desert  sand,  o’er  dangerous  moor. 
Nor  to  thyself  the  task  shall  be 
Without  reward ; for  thou  shaft  learn 
The  wisdom  early  to  discern 
True  beauty  in  utility  ; 

As  great  Pythagoras  of  yore, 

Standing  beside  the  blacksmith’s  door, 
And  hearing  the  hammers,  as  they  smote 
The  anvils  with  a different  note, 

Stole  from  the  varying  tones,  that  hung 
Vibrant  on  every  iron  tongue, 

The  secret  of  the  sounding  wire, 

And  formed  the  seven-chorded  lyre. 

Enough ! I will  not  play  the  Seer ; 

I will  no  longer  strive  to  ope 
The  mystic  volume,  where  appear 
The  herald  Hoj:>e,  forerunning  Fear, 

And  Fear,  the  pursuivant  of  Hope. 

Thy  destiny  remains  untold  ; 

For,  like  Acestes’  shaft  of  old. 

The  swift  thought  kindles  as  it  flies. 

And  burns  to  ashes  in  the  skies. 


MENU  Y WA  DS  won  TH  L ON G FELL  O W. 


131 


THE  OCCULTATION  OF  ORION. 


I saw,  as  in  a dream  sublime, 

The  balance  in  the  hand  of  Time. 

O’er  East  and  West  its  beam  impended; 

And  Day,  with  all  its  hours  of  light. 

Was  slowly  sinking  out  of  sight, 

While,  opposite,  the  scale  of  Night 
Silently  with  the  stars  ascended. 

Like  the  astrologers  of  eld. 

In  that  bright  vision  I beheld 
Greater  and  deeper  mysteries. 

I saw,  with  its  celestial  keys, 

Its  chords  of  air,  its  frets  of  tire, 

The  Samian’s  great  Aeolian  lyre, 

Rising  through  all  its  sevenfold  bars, 

From  earth  unto  the  fixed  stars. 

And  through  the  dewy  atmosphere, 

Not  only  could  I see,  but  hear. 

Its  wondrous  and  harmonious  strings, 

In  sweet  vibration,  sphere  by  sphere, 

From  Dian’s  circle  light  and  near, 

Onward  to  vaster  and  wider  rings, 

Where,  chanting  through  his  beard  of  snows, 
Majestic,  mournful,  Saturn  goes, 

And  down  the  sunless  realms  of  space 
Reverberates  the  thunder  of  his  bass. 


Beneath  the  sky's  triumphal  arch 
This  music  sounded  like  a march, 

And  with  its  chorus  seemed  to  be 
Preluding  some  great  tragedy. 

Sirius  was  rising  in  the  east ; 

And,  slow  ascending  one  by  one, 

The  kindling  constellations  shone. 
Begirt  with  many  a blazing  star, 
Stood  the  great  giant  Algebar, 

Orion,  hunter  of  the  beast ! 

His  sword  hung  gleaming  by  his  side, 
And,  on  his  arm,  the  lion's  hide 
Scattered  across  the  midnight  air 
The  golden  radiance  of  its  hair. 

The  moon  was  pallid,  but  not  faint ; 
And  beautiful  as  some  fair  saint, 
Serenely  moving  on  her  way 
In  hours  of  trial  and  dismay. 

As  if  she  heard  the  voice  of  God, 
Unharmed  with  naked  feet  she  trod 
Upon  the  hot  and  burning  stars, 

As  on  the  glowing  coals  and  bars, 
That  were  to  prove  her  strength  and 
. trY 

Her  holiness  and  her  purity. 


132 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Thus  moving  on,  with  silent  pace, 

And  triumph  in  her  sweet,  pale  face, 
She  reached  the  station  of  Orion. 

Aghast  he  stood  in  strange  alarm  ! 

And  suddenly  from  his  outstretched  arm 
Down  fell  the  red  skin  of  the  lion 
Into  the  river  at  his  feet. 

His  mighty  club  no  longer  beat 
The  forehead  of  the  bull ; but  he 
Reeled  as  of  yore  beside  the  sea, 

When,  blinded  by  CEnopion, 

He  sought  the  blacksmith  at  his  forge, 
And,  climbing  up  the  mountain  gorge, 
Fixed  his  blank  eyes  upon  the  sun. 


Then,  through  the  silence  overhead, 

An  angel  with  a trumpet  said, 

“ Forevermore,  forevermore, 

The  reign  of  violence  is  o’er ! ” 

And,  like  an  instrument  that  flings 
Its  music  on  another’s  strings, 

The  trumpet  of  the  angel  cast 
Upon  the  heavenly  lyre  its  blast, 

And  on  from  sphere  to  sphere  the  words 
Reechoed  down  the  burning  chords,  — 

“ Forevermore,  forevermore, 

The  reign  of  violence  is  o’er  ! ” 


THE  BRIDGE. 


I stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 

As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 
And  the  moon  rose  o’er  the  city, 

Behind  the  dark  church-tower. 

I saw  her  bright  reflection 
In  the  waters  under  me, 

Like  a golden  goblet  falling 
And  sinking  into  the  sea. 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 
Of  that  lovely  night  in  June, 

The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 
Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 
The  wavering  shadows  lay, 

And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 
Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away  ; 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them. 
Rose  the  belated  tide, 

And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  seaweed  floated  wide. 

And  like  those  waters  rushing 
Among  the  wooden  piers, 

A flood  of  thoughts  came  o’er  me 
That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  oh  how  often, 

In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 


I had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky  ! 

How  often,  oh  how  often, 

I had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 

Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 
O’er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide  ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 

And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea  ; 

And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 
Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I think  how  many  thousands 
Of  care-encumbered  men, 

Each  bearing  Ins  burden  of  sorrow, 
Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I see  the  long  procession 
Still  passing  to  and  fro, 

The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow  ! 


"And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 

Behind  the  dark  church-tower. 

l'he  Bridge . 


-flit  UBRAHY 
Of  ME 

C?  1LUWWS 


HENR  V WA  ns  won  TH  l on  gfell  0 w. 


1 33 


As  long  as  the  heart  lias  passions, 
As  long  as  life  has  woes; 


And  forever  and  forever, 

As  long  as  the  river  Hows, 


The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 
And  its  wavering  image  here. 


TO  THE  DRIVING  CLOUD. 


Gloomy  and  dark  art  thou,  O chief  of  the  mighty  Omahas  ; 

Gloomy  and  dark  as  the  driving  cloud,  whose  name  thou  hast  taken  ! 

Wrapped  in  thy  scarlet  blanket,  I see  thee  stalk  through  the  city’s 
Narrow  and  populous  streets,  as  once  by  the  margin  of  rivers 
Stalked  those  birds  unknown,  that  have  left  us  only  their  footprints. 

What,  in  a few  short  years,  will  remain  of  thy  race  but  the  footprints? 

How  canst  thou  walk  these  streets,  who  hast  trod  the  green  turf  of  the  prairies  ? 
How  canst  thou  breathe  this  air,  who  hast  breathed  the  sweet  air  of  the  mountains  ? 
Ah ! ’t  is  in  vain  that  with  lordly  looks  of  disdain  thou  dost  challenge 
Looks  of  disdain  in  return,  and  question  these  walls  and  these  pavements, 

Claiming  the  soil  for  thy  hunting-grounds,  while  down-trodden  millions 
Starve  in  the  garrets  of  Europe,  and  cry  from  its  caverns  that  they,  too, 

Have  been  created  heirs  of  the  earth,  and  claim  its  division  ! 

Back,  then,  back  to  thy  woods  in  the  regions  west  of  the  Wabash  ! 

There  as  a monarch  thou  reignest.  In  autumn  the  leaves  of  the  maple 

Pave  the  floors  of  thy  palace-halls  with  gold,  and  in  summer 

Pine-trees  waft  through  its  chambers  the  odorous  breath  of  their  branches. 

There  thou  art  strong  and  great,  a hero,  a tamer  of  horses ! 

There  thou  chasest  the  stately  stag  on  the  banks  of  the  Elkliorn, 

Or  by  the  roar  of  the  Running- Water,  or  where  the  Omaha 

Calls  thee,  and  leaps  through  the  wild  ravine  like  a brave  of  the  Blackfeet ! 

Hark ! what  murmurs  arise  from  the  heart  of  those  mountainous  deserts  ? 

Is  it  the  cry  of  the  Foxes  and  Crows,  or  the  mighty  Behemoth, 

Who,  unharmed,  on  his  tusks  once  caught  the  bolts  of  the  thunder, 

And  now  lurks  in  his  lair  to  destroy  the  race  of  the  red  man  ? 

Far  more  fatal  to  thee  and  thy  race  than  the  Crows  and  the  Foxes, 

Far  more  fatal  to  thee  and  thy  race  than  the  tread  of  Behemoth, 

Lo ! the  big  thunder-canoe,  that  steadily  breasts  the  Missouri’s 
Merciless  current ! and  yonder,  afar  on  the  prairies,  the  camp-fires 
Gleam  through  the  night  ; and  the  cloud  of  dust  in  the  gray  of  the  daybreak 
Marks  not  the  buffalo’s  track,  nor  the  Mandan’s  dexterous  horse-race ; 

It  is  a caravan,  whitening  the  desert  where  dwell  the  Camanches! 

Ha!  how  the  breath  of  these  Saxons  and  Celts,  like  the  blast  of  the  east-wind, 

Drifts  evermore  to  the  west  the  scanty  smokes  of  thy  wigwams ! 


134 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 


The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I see  the  lights  of  the  village 

(fleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 
That  my  soul  cannot  resist : 

A feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 

And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 

Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 

Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 

Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 


Life’s  endless  toil  and  endeavor ; 

And  to-night  I long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 

Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 
The  restless  pulse  of  care, 

And  come  like  the  benediction 
That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 
The  poem  of  thy  choice, 

And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 
The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 
Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY. 


The  day  is  ending, 

The  night  is  descending  ; 
The  marsh  is  frozen, 

The  river  dead. 


Through  clouds  like  ashes 
The  red  sun  flashes 
On  village  windows 
That  glimmer  red. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


1 


The  snow  recommences ; 

The  buried  fences 
Mark  no  longer 

The  road  o'er  the  plain ; 

While  through  the  meadows, 
Like  fearful  shadows, 

Slowly  passes 
A funeral  train. 


The  bell  is  pealing, 
And  every  feeling 
Within  me  responds 
To  the  dismal  knell ; 

Shadows  are  trailing, 
My  heart  is  bewailing 
And  tolling  within 
Like  a funeral  bell. 


TO  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG  BOOK. 


Welcome,  my  old  friend, 

We  lcome  to  a foreign  fireside, 

While  the  sullen  gales  of  autumn 
Shake  the  windows. 

The  ungrateful  world 
Has,  it  seems,  dealt  harshly  with  thee, 
Since,  beneath  the  skies  of  Denmark, 
First  I met  thee. 

There  are  marks  of  age, 

There  are  thumb-marks  on  thy  margin, 
Made  by  hands  that  clasped  thee  rudely, 
At  the  alehouse. 

Soiled  and  dull  thou  art ; 

Yellow  are  thy  time-worn  pages, 

As  the  russet,  rain-molested 
Leaves  of  autumn. 

Thou  art  stained  with  wine 
Scattered  from  hilarious  goblets, 

As  the  leaves  with  the  libations 
Of  Olympus. 


Yet  dost  thou  recall 

Days  departed,  half -forgotten, 

When  in  dreamy  youth  I wandered 
By  the  Baltic,  — 

When  I paused  to  hear 
The  old  ballad  of  King  Christian 
Shouted  from  suburban  taverns 
In  the  twilight. 

Thou  recallest  bards, 

Who,  in  solitary  chambers, 

And  with  hearts  by  passion  wasted, 
Wrote  thy  pages. 

Thou  recallest  homes 
Where  thy  songs  of  love  and  friendship 
Made  the  gloomy  Northern  winter 
Bright  as  summer. 

Once  some  ancient  Scald, 

In  his  bleak,  ancestral  Iceland, 

Chanted  staves  of  these  old  ballads 
To  the  Vikings. 


136 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Once  in  Elsinore, 

At  the  court  of  old  King  Hamlet, 
Yorick  and  his  boon  companions 
Sang  these  ditties. 

Once  Prince  Frederick's  Guard 
Sang  them  in  their  smoky  barracks ; — 
Suddenly  the  English  cannon 
Joined  the  chorus ! 

Peasants  in  the  field, 

Sailors  on  the  roaring  ocean, 

Students,  tradesmen,  pale  mechanics, 

All  have  sung  them. 


Thou  hast  been  their  friend ; 

They,  alas ! have  left  thee  friendless ! 
Yet  at  least  by  one  warm  fireside 
Art  thou  welcome. 

And,  as  swallows  build 
In  these  wide,  old-fashioned  chimneys, 
So  thy  twittering  song  shall  nestle 
In  my  bosom,  — 

Quiet,  close,  and  warm, 

Sheltered  from  all  molestation, 

And  recalling  by  their  voices 
Youth  and  travel. 


WALTER  VON  DER  VOGELWEID. 


Vogelweid  the  Minnesinger, 

When  he  left  this  world  of  ours, 

Laid  his  body  in  the  cloister, 

Under  Wiirtzburg’s  minster  towers. 

And  he  gave  the  monks  his  treasures, 
Gave  them  all  with  this  behest : 

They  should  feed  the  birds  at  noontide 
Daily  on  his  place  of  rest ; 

Saying,  “From  these  wandering  minstrels 
I have  learned  the  art  of  song ; 

Let  me  now  repay  the  lessons 

They  have  taught  so  well  and  long.” 

Thus  the  bard  of  love  departed  ; 

And,  fulfilling  his  desire, 

On  his  tomb  the  birds  Avere  feasted 
By  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Day  by  day,  o’er  toAver  and  turret, 

In  foul  Aveatlier  and  in  fair, 

Day  by  day,  in  vaster  numbers, 

Flocked  the  poets  of  the  air. 

On  the  tree  Avhose  heavy  branches 
Overshadowed  all  the  place, 

On  the  pavement,  on  the  tombstone, 

On  the  poet’s  sculptured  face, 


On  the  cross-bars  of  each  window, 

On  the  lintel  of  each  door, 

They  reneAved  the  War  of  Wartburg, 
Which  the  bard  had  fought  before. 


IIENR  Y WA  DS  WOR Til  L ON G FELL  0 )V. 


1 37 


There  they  sang  their  merry  carols, 

Sang  their  lauds  on  every  side; 

And  the  name  their  voices  uttered 
Was  the  name  of  Vogel weid. 

Till  at  length  the  portly  abbot 

Murmured,  “Why  this  waste  of  food? 

Be  it  changed  to  loaves  henceforward 
For  our  fasting  brotherhood.” 

Then  in  vain  o'er  tower  and  turret, 
From  the  walls  and  woodland  nests, 

When  the  minster  bells  rang  noontide, 
Gathered  the  unwelcome  guests. 


Then  in  vain,  with  cries  discordant, 
Clamorous  round  the  Gothic  spire, 
Screamed  the  feathered  Minnesingers 
For  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Time  has  long  effaced  the  inscriptions 
On  the  cloister’s  funeral  stones, 

And  tradition  only  tells  us 

Where  repose  the  poet’s  bones. 

But  around  the  vast  cathedral, 

By  sweet  echoes  multiplied, 

Still  the  birds  repeat  the  legend, 

And  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 


DRINKING  SONG. 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  AN  ANTIQUE  PITCHER. 


Come,  old  friend  ! sit  down  and  listen  ! 
F rom  the  pitcher,  placed  between  us, 

How  the  waters  laugh  and  glisten 
In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 

Old  Silenus,  bloated,  drunken. 

Led  by  his  inebriate  Satyrs ; 

On  his  breast  his  head  is  sunken, 
Vacantly  he  leers  and  chatters. 

Fauns  with  youthful  Bacchus  follow; 

Ivy  crowns  that  brow  supernal 

As  the  forehead  of  Apollo, 

And  possessing  youth  eternal. 

Round  about  him,  fair  Bacchantes, 
Bearing  cymbals,  flutes,  and  thyrses, 

Wild  from  Naxian  groves,  or  Zante’s 
Vineyards,  sing  delirious  verses. 

Thus  he  won,  through  all  the  nations, 
Bloodless  victories,  and  the  farmer 

Bore,  as  trophies  and  oblations, 

Vines  for  banners,  ploughs  for  armor. 

Judged  by  no  o’erzealous  rigor. 

Much  this  mystic  throng  expresses  : 

Bacchus  jvas  the  type  of  vigor, 

And  Silenus  of  excesses. 

is 


These  are  ancient  ethnic  revels, 

Of  a faith  long  since  forsaken ; 

Now  the  Satyrs,  changed  to  devils, 
Frighten  mortals  wine-o'ertaken. 

Now  to  rivulets  from  the  mountains 
Point  the  rods  of  fortune-tellers ; 
Youth  perpetual  dwells  in  fountains,  — 
Not  in  flasks,  and  casks,  and  cellars. 


138 


TIIE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Claudius,  though  he  sang  of  flagons 

And  huge  tankards  filled  with  Rhenish. 
From  that  fiery  blood  of  dragons 
Never  would  his  own  replenish. 

Even  lledi,  though  lie  cliaunted 
Bacchus  in  the  Tuscan  valleys, 

Never  drank  the  wine  he  vaunted 
In  his  dithyrambic  sallies. 


Then  with  water  fill  the  pitcher 
W reathed  about  with  classic  fables ; 
Ne'er  Falernian  threw  a richer 
Light  upon  Lucullus*  tables. 

Come,  old  friend,  sit  down  and  listen ! 

As  it  passes  thus  between  us, 

How  its  wavelets  laugh  and  glisten 
In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 


L’eternite  est  une  pendule,  dont  le  balancier  dir  et  redit  sans  cessc  ces  deux  mots  seulement,  dans  lc  silence  des  tom 


beaux:  “ Tou jours!  jamais!  Jamais!  toujours! 


Jacques  Bridaine 


Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw  ; 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all,  — 

“ Forever  — never  ! 

Never  — forever  ! ” 


Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 

And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 

Like  a monk,  who,  under  his  cloak. 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  ! 

With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass,  — 
“ F orever  — never  ! 

Never  — for  ever  ! ” 


HENll  Y IVA  ns  won  Til  I.  ON  OF  El.  A 0 W. 


139 


By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light ; 

But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 

Distinct  as  a passing  footstep’s  fall, 

It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 

Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 

And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door,  — 

“ Forever  — never  ! 

Never — forever  ! ” 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
< )f  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood. 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 

It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe, — 

“ Forever  — never  ! 

Never  — Forever  ! ” 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality ; 

His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared  ; 

The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board ; 

But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 

That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased,  — 

“ Forever — never  ! ” 

Never  — forever  ! ” 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 

There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed; 
O precious  hours ! O golden  prime, 

And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 


Even  as  a miser  counts  his  gold, 

Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told, — 

“ Forever  — never  ! 

Never  — forever  ! ” 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 

The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding  night; 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 

The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow ; 

And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair,  — 

“ Forever  — never  ! 

Never  — forever  ! ” 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 

Some  are  married,  some  are  dead ; 

And  when  I ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 

“ Ah  ! when  shall  they  all  meet  again  ? ” 

As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by, 

The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply,  — 

“ Forever  — never  ! 

Never  — forever  ! ” 

Never  here,  forever  there, 

Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 

And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear,  — 
Forever  there,  but  never  here ! 

The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly,  — 

“ Forever  — never  ! 

Never  — forever  ! ” 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG. 


I shot  an  arrow  into  the  air, 

It  fell  to  earth,  I knew  not  where  ; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  Hew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I breathed  a song  into  the  air, 

It  fell  to  earth,  I knew  not  where ; 


For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke  ; 

And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 

I found  again  in  the  heart  of  a friend. 


140 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 


Lo!  in  the  painted  oriel  of  the  West, 

Whose  panes  the  sunken  sun  incarnadines, 
Like  a fair  lady  at  her  casement,  shines 
The  evening  star,  the  star  of  love  and  rest ! 

And  then  anon  she  doth  herself  divest 
Of  all  her  radiant  garments,  and  reclines 
Behind  the  sombre  screen  of  yonder  pines, 
With  slumber  and  soft  dreams  of  love 
oppressed. 


( ) my  beloved,  my  sweet  Hesperus ! 

My  morning  and  my  evening  star  of  love ! 
My  best  and  gentlest  lady ! even  thus, 

As  that  fair  planet  in  the  sky  above, 

Dost  thou  retire  unto  thy  rest  at  night, 
And  from  thy  darkened  window  fades  the 
light. 


AUTUMN. 


Thou  comest,  Autumn,  heralded  by  the  rain. 
With  banners,  by  great  gales  incessant  fanned, 
Brighter  than  brightest  silks  of  Samarcand, 
And  stately  oxen  harnessed  to  thy  wain ! 

Thou  standest,  like  imperial  Charlemagne, 
Upon  thy  bridge  of  gold ; thy  royal  hand 
Outstretched  with  benedictions  o'er  the  land, 
Blessing  the  farms  through  all  thy  vast 
domain ! 


Thy  shield  is  the  red  harvest  moon,  suspended 
So  long  beneath  the  heaven’s  o’erhanging 
eaves ; 

Thy  steps  are  by  the  farmer’s  prayers  at- 
tended ; 

Like  flames  upon  an  altar  shine  the  sheaves ; 
And,  following  thee,  in  thy  ovation  splendid, 
Thine  almoner,  the  wind,  scatters  the  golden 
leaves ! 


DANTE. 


Tuscan,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms 
of  gloom, 

With  thoughtful  pace,  and  sad,  majestic  eyes, 
Stern  thoughts  and  awful  from  tliy  soul  arise, 
Like  Farinata  from  his  fiery  tomb. 

Thy  sacred  song  is  like  the  trump  of  doom ; 
Yet  in  thy  heart  what  human  sympathies, 
What  soft  compassion  glows,  as  in  the  skies 
The  tender  stars  their  clouded  lamps  relume! 


Methinks  I see  thee  stand  with  pallid  cheeks 
By  Fra  Hilario  in  his  diocese, 

As  up  the  convent-walls,  in  golden  streaks, 
The  ascending  sunbeams  mark  the  day’s  de- 
crease ; 

And,  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stranger 
seeks, 

Thy  voice  along  the  cloister  whispers 
“ Peace  ! ” 


HENR  Y WADS  WOR TH  L ONGFELL  0 W, 


141 


FROM  THE  GERMAN. 


O hemlock  tree  ! O hemlock  tree  ! how  faith- 
ful are  thy  branches ! 

Green  not  alone  in  summer  time, 

But  in  the  winter’s  frost  and  rime  ! 

O hemlock  tree!  O hemlock  tree!  how  faith- 
ful are  thy  branches ! 

O maiden  fair ! O maiden  fair ! how  faithless 
is  thy  bosom  ! 

To  love  me  in  prosperity, 

And  leave  me  in  adversity  ! 

O maiden  fair ! O maiden  fair ! how  faithless 
is  thy  bosom ! 


The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak’st 
for  thine  example ! 

So  long  as  summer  laughs  she  sings, 

But  in  the  autumn  spreads  her  wings. 

The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak’st 
for  thine  example ! 

The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is  mir- 
ror of  thy  falsehood ! 

It  flows  so  long  as  falls  the  rain, 

In  drought  its  springs  soon  dry  again. 

The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is  mir- 
ror of  thy  falsehood  ! 


ANNIE  OF  THARAW. 

FROM  THE  LOW  GERMAN  OF  SIMON  DACH. 


Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  true  love  of  old, 

She  is  my  life,  and  my  goods,  and  my  gold. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  her  heart  once  again 
To  me  has  surrendered  in  joy  and  in  pain. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  riches,  my  good, 

Thou,  O my  soul,  my  flesh,  and  my  blood  ! 

Then  come  the  wild  weather,  come  sleet  or 
come  snow, 

We  will  stand  by  each  other,  however  it  blow. 

Oppression,  and  sickness,  and  sorrow,  and  pain 
Shall  be  to  our  true  love  as  links  to  the  chain. 


As  the  palm-tree  standeth  so  straight  and  so 
tall, 

The  more  the  hail  beats,  and  the  more  the 
rains  fall,  — 

So  love  in  our  hearts  shall  grow  mighty  and 
strong, 

Through  crosses,  through  sorrows,  through 
manifold  wrong. 

Shouldst  thou  be  torn  from  me  to  wander 
alone 

In  a desolate  land  where  the  sun  is  scarce 
known,  — 


142 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Through  forests  I ’ll  follow,  and  where  the 
sea  flows, 

Through  ice,  and  through  iron,  through  armies 
of  foes. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  light  and  my  sun, 

The  threads  of  our  two  lives  are  woven  in  one. 

Whate'er  I have  bidden  thee  thou  hast  obeyed, 

Whatever  forbidden  thou  hast  not  gainsaid. 

How  in  the  turmoil  of  life  can  love  stand, 

Where  there  is  not  one  heart,  and  one  mouth, 
and  one  hand? 

Some  seek  for  dissension,  and  trouble,  and  strife  ; 

Like  a dog  and  a cat  live  such  man  and  wife. 


Annie  of  Tharaw,  such  is  not  our  love ; 

Thou  art  my  lambkin,  my  chick,  and  my 
dove. 

Whate’er  my  desire  is,  in  thine  may  be  seen ; 

I am  king  of  the  household,  and  thou  art  its 
queen. 

It  is  this,  O my  Annie,  my  heart’s  sweetest 
rest, 

That  makes  of  us  twain  but  one  soul  in  one 
breast. 

This  turns  to  a heaven  the  hut  where  we 
dwell ; 

While  wrangling  soon  changes  a home  to  a 
hell. 


THE  STATUE  OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL  DOOR. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  JULIUS  MOSEN. 


Forms  of  saints  and  kings  are  standing 

O o 

The  cathedral  door  above  ; 

Yet  I saw  but  one  among  them 

Who  hath  soothed  my  soul  with  love. 

In  his  mantle,  — wound  about  him, 

As  their  robes  the  sowers  wind,  — 
Bore  he  swallows  and  their  fledglings, 
Flowers  and  weeds  of  every  kind. 


And  so  stands  he  calm  and  childlike, 

High  in  wind  and  tempest  wild  ; 

Oh,  were  I like  him  exalted, 

1 would  be  like  him  a child  ! 

And  my  songs,  — green  leaves  and  blossoms,  — 
To  the  doors  of  heaven  would  bear. 

Calling  even  in  storm  and  tempest, 

Round  me  still  these  birds  of  air. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CROSSBILL. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  JULIUS  MOSEN. 


On  the  cross  the  dying  Saviour 
Heavenward  lifts  his  eyelids  calm, 
Feels,  but  scarcely  feels,  a trembling 
In  his  pierced  and  bleeding  palm. 

And  by  all  the  world  forsaken, 

Sees  He  how  with  zealous  care 
At  the  ruthless  nail  of  iron 
A little  bird  is  striving  there. 

Stained  with  blood  and  never  tiring, 
With  its  beak  it  doth  not  cease, 


From  the  cross ’t  would  free  the  Saviour, 
Its  Creator’s  Son  release. 

And  the  Saviour  speaks  in  mildness : 

“ Blest  be  thou  of  all  the  good ! 

Bear,  as  token  of  this  moment, 

Marks  of  blood  and  holy  rood ! ’" 

And  that  bird  is  called  the  crossbill  ; 

Covered  all  with  blood  so  clear, 

In  the  groves  of  pine  it  singeth 

Songs,  like  legends,  strange  to  hear. 


HKNli  V WA  DS  WOR  Til  L ON  G FELL  0 W. 


143 


THE  SEA  HATH  ITS  PEARLS. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  HEINRICH  HEINE. 


The  sea  hath  its  pearls, 

The  heaven  hath  its  stars ; 

Rut  my  heart,  my  heart, 

My  heart  hath  its  love. 

Great  are  the  sea  and  the  heaven ; 
Yet  greater  is  my  heart, 


And  fairer  than  pearls  and  stars 
Flashes  and  beams  my  love. 

Thou  little,  youthful  maiden, 

Come  unto  my  great  heart; 

My  heart,  and  the  sea,  and  the  heaven 
Are  melting  away  with  love  ! 


POETIC  APHORISMS. 

FROM  THE  SINNGEDIOHTE  OF  FRIEDRICH  VON  LOGAU. 
SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 


MONEY. 

WHEREUNTO  is  money  good? 

Who  has  it  not  wants  hardihood, 

Who  has  it  has  much  trouble  and  care, 
Who  once  has  had  it  has  despair. 

THE  BEST  MEDICINES. 

Joy  and  Temperance  and  Repose 
Slam  the  door  on  the  doctor’s  nose. 

SIN. 

Man-like  is  it  to  fall  into  sin, 
Fiend-like  is  it  to  dwell  therein, 
Christ-like  is  it  for  sin  to  grieve, 
God-like  is  it  all  sin  to  leave. 

POVERTY  AND  BLINDNESS. 

A blind  man  is  a poor  man,  and  blind  a 
poor  man  is ; 

For  the  former  seeth  no  man,  and  the  latter 
no  man  sees. 

LAW  OF  LIFE. 

Live  I,  so  live  I, 

To  my  Lord  heartily, 

To  my  Prince  faithfully, 

To  my  Neighbor  honestly. 

Die  I,  so  die  I. 


CREEDS. 

Lutheran,  Popish,  Calvinistic,  all  these  creeds 
and  doctrines  three 

Extant  are ; but  still  the  doubt  is,  where 
Christianity  may  be. 

the  restless  heart. 

A millstone  and  the  human  heart  are 
driven  ever  round ; 

If  they  have  nothing  else  to  grind,  they  must 
themselves  be  ground. 

CHRISTIAN  LOVE. 

Whilom  Love  was  like  a tire,  and  warmth 
and  comfort  it  bespoke ; 

But,  alas ! it  now  is  quenched,  and  only  bites 
us,  like  the  smoke. 

art  and  tact. 

Intelligence  and  courtesy  not  always  are 
combined ; 

Often  in  a wooden  house  a golden  room  we  find. 
retribution. 

Though  the  mills  of'  God  grind  slowly,  yet 
they  grind  exceeding  small : 

Though  with  patience  lie  stands  waiting,  with 
exactness  grinds  he  all. 


144 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


TRUTH. 

When  by  night  the  frogs  are  croaking,  kindle  but  a torch’s  fire, 

Ha ! how  soon  they  all  are  silent ! Thus  Truth  silences  the  liar. 

RHYMES. 

If  perhaps  these  rhymes  of  mine  should  sound  not  well  in  strangers’  ears, 
They  have  only  to  bethink  them  that  it  happens  so  with  theirs  ; 

For  so  long  as  words,  like  mortals,  call  a fatherland  their  own, 

They  will  be  most  highly  valued  where  they  are  best  and  longest  known. 


CURFEW. 


i. 

Solemnly,  mournfully, 
Dealing  its  dole, 

The  Curfew  Bell 
Is  beginning  to  toll. 

Cover  the  embers, 

And  put  out  the  light ; 

Toil  comes  with  the  morning, 
And  rest  with  the  night. 

Dark  grow  the  windows, 

And  quenched  is  the  fire  ; 

Sound  fades  into  silence,  — 
All  footsteps  retire. 

No  voice  in  the  chambers, 

No  sound  in  the  hall ! 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all ! 


n. 

The  book  is  completed, 

And  closed,  like  the  day ; 

And  the  hand  that  has  written  it 
Lays  it  away. 

Dim  grow  its  fancies  ; 

Forgotten  they  lie ; 

Like  coals  in  the  ashes, 

They  darken  and  die. 

Song  sinks  into  silence. 

The  story  is  told, 

The  windows  are  darkened, 

The  hearth-stone  is  cold. 

Darker  and  darker 

The  black  shadows  fall ; 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all. 


THt  M3Rfl«r 
Or  THE 
C?  IU.IR8SS 


ARTIST  : H.  A.  ABBEY. 


EVANGELINE 


A 'PALE  OF  ACADIE. 


This  is  the  forest  primeval.  The  murmuring 
pines  and  the  hemlocks, 

Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green, 
indistinct  in  the  twilight, 

Stand  like  Druids  of  eld,  Avith  voices  sad  and 
prophetic, 

Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that  rest 
on  their  bosoms. 

Loud  from  its  rocky  caverns,  the  deep-voiced 
neighboring  ocean 

o o 

Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the 
, wail  of  the  forest. 


148 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


This  is  the  forest  primeval ; but  where  are  the  hearts  that  beneath  it 
Leaped  like  the  roe,  when  he  hears  in  the  woodland  the  voice  of  the  huntsman  ? 
Where  is  the  thatch-roofed  village,  the  home  of  Acadian  farmers,  — 

Men  whose  lives  glided  on  like  rivers  that  water  the  woodlands, 

Darkened  by  shadows  of  earth,  but  reflecting  an  image  of  heaven  ? 

Waste  are  those  pleasant  farms,  and  the  farmers  forever  departed  ! 

Scattered  like  dust  and  leaves,  when  the  mighty  blasts  of  October 
Seize  them,  and  whirl  them  aloft,  and  sprinkle  them  far  o’er  the  ocean. 

Naught  but  tradition  remains  of  the  beautiful  village  of  Grand  Pre. 


Ye  who  believe  in  affection  that  hopes,  and  endures,  and  is  patient, 
Ye  who  believe  in  the  beauty  and  strength  of  woman’s  devotion, 

List  to  the  mournful  tradition,  still  sung  by  the  pines  of  the  forest , 
List  to  a Tale  of  Love  in  Ac.adie,  home  of  the  happy. 


PART  THE  FIRST. 

I. 

In  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores  of  the  Basin  of  Minas, 

Distant,  secluded,  still,  the  little  village  of  Grand  Pr6 

Lay  in  the  fruitful  valley.  Vast  meadows  stretched  to  the  eastward, 

Giving  the  village  its  name,  and  pasture  to  flocks  without  number. 


HENR  Y IV A I)S  WOR  TH  L ONGFKLL  0 IV. 


149 


Dikes,  that  the  hands  of  the  farmers  had  raised  with  labor  incessant, 

Shut  out  the  turbulent  tides ; but  at  stated  seasons  the  flood-gates 
Opened,  and  welcomed  the  sea  to  wander  at  will  o'er  the  meadows. 

West  and  south  there  were  fields  of  flax,  and  orchards  and  cornfields 
Spreading  afar  and  unfenced  o’er  the  plain;  and  away  to  the  northward 
Blomidon  rose,  and  the  forests  old,  and  aloft  on  the  mountains 
Sea-fogs  pitched  their  tents,  and  mists  from  the  mighty  Atlantic 
Looked  on  the  happy  valley,  but  ne'er  from  their  station  descended. 

There,  in  the  midst  of  its  farms,  reposed  the  Acadian  village. 

Strongly  built  were  the  houses,  with  frames  of  oak  and  of  hemlock, 

Such  as  the  peasants  of  Normandy  built  in  the  reign  of  the  Henries. 

Thatched  were  the  roofs,  with  dormer-windows;  and  gables  projecting 
Over  the  basement  below  protected  and  shaded  the  doorway. 

There  in  the  tranquil  evenings  of  summer,  when  brightly  the  sunset 
Lighted  the  village  street,  and  gilded  the  vanes  on  the  chimneys, 

Matrons  and  maidens  sat  in  snow-white  caps  and  in  kirtles 

Scarlet  and  blue  and  green,  with  distaffs  spinning  the  golden 

Flax  for  the  gossiping  looms,  whose  noisy  shuttles  within  doors 

Mingled  their  sounds  with  the  whir  of  the  wheels  and  the  songs  of  the  maidens. 

Solemnly  down  the  street  came  the  parish  priest,  and  the  children 

Paused  in  their  play  to  kiss  the  hand  he  extended  to  bless  them. 

Reverend  walked  he  among  them ; and  up  rose  matrons  and  maidens, 

Hailing  his  slow  approach  with  words  of  affectionate  welcome. 

Then  came  the  laborers  home  from  the  field,  and  serenely  the  sun  sank 
Down  to  his  rest,  and  twilight  prevailed.  Anon  from  the  belfry 
Softly  the  Angelas  sounded,  and  over  the  roofs  of  the  village 
Columns  of  pale  blue  smoke,  like  clouds  of  incense  ascending, 

Rose  from  a hundred  hearths,  the  homes  of  peace  and  contentment. 

Thus  dwelt  together  in  love  these  simple  Acadian  farmers,  — 

Dwelt  in  the  love  of  God  and  of  man.  Alike  were  they  free  from 
Fear,  that  reigns  with  the  tyrant,  and  envy,  the  vice  of  republics. 

Neither  locks  had  they  to  their  doors,  nor  bars  to  their  windows  ; 

But  their  dwellings  were  open  as  day  and  the  hearts  of  the  owners  ; 

There  the  richest  was  poor,  and  the  poorest  lived  in  abundance. 

Somewhat  apart  from  the  village,  and  nearer  the  Basin  of  Minas, 

Benedict  Bellefontaine,  the  wealthiest  farmer  of  Grand  Pre, 

Dwelt  on  his  goodly  acres  ; and  with  him,  directing  his  household, 

Gentle  Evangeline  lived,  his  child,  and  the  pride  of  the  village. 

Stalworth  and  stately  in  form  was  the  man  of  seventy  winters  ; 

Hearty  and  hale  was  he,  an  oak  that  is  covered  with  snow-flakes ; 

White  as  the  snow  were  his  locks,  and  his  cheeks  as  brown  as  the  oak-leaves. 

Fair  was  she  to  behold,  that  maiden  of  seventeen  summers. 

Black  were  her  eyes  as  the  berry  that  grows  on  the  thorn  by  the  wayside. 
Black,  yet  how  softly  they  gleamed  beneath  the  brown  shade  of  her  tresses ! 
Sweet  was  her  breath  as  the  breath  of  kine  that  feed  in  the  meadows. 

When  in  the  harvest  heat  she  bore  to  the  reapers  at  noontide 
Flagons  of  home-brewed  ale,  ah  ! fair  in  sooth  was  the  maiden. 

Fairer  was  she  when,  on  Sunday  morn,  while  the  bell  from  its  turret 

Sprinkled  with  holy  sounds  the  air,  as  the  priest  with  his  hyssop 


150 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OE 


Sprinkles  the  congregation,  and  scatters  blessings  upon  them, 

Down  the  long  street  she  passed,  with  her  chaplet  of  beads  and  her  missal, 
Wearing  her  Norman  cap,  and  her  kirtle  of  1)1  ue,  and  the  ear-rings, 

Brought  in  the  olden  time  from  France,  and  since,  as  an  heirloom, 

Handed  down  from  mother  to  child,  through  long  generations. 

But  a celestial  brightness  — a more  ethereal  beauty  — 

Shone  on  her  face  and  encircled  her  form,  when,  after  confession, 

Homeward  serenely  she  walked  with  God’s  benediction  upon  her. 

When  she  had  passed,  it  seemed  like  the  ceasing  of  exquisite  music. 

Firmly  builded  with  rafters  of  oak,  the  house  of  the  farmer 
Stood  on  the  side  of  a hill  commanding  the  sea;  and  a shady 
Sycamore  grew  by  the  door,  with  a woodbine  wreathing  around  it. 

Rudely  carved  was  the  porch,  with  seats  beneath  ; and  a footpath 
Led  through  an  orchard  wide,  and  disappeared  in  the  meadow. 

Under  the  sycamore-tree  were  hives  overhung  by  a penthouse, 

Such  as  the  traveller  sees  in  regions  remote  by  the  roadside, 

Built  o’er  a box  for  the  poor,  or  the  blessed  image  of  Mary. 

Farther  down,  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  was  the  well  with  its  moss-grown 
Bucket,  fastened  with  iron,  and  near  it  a trough  for  the  horses. 

Shielding  the  house  from  storms,  on  the  north,  were  the  barns  and  the  farm-yard 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


There  stood  the  broad-wheeled  wains  and  the  antique  ploughs  and  the  harrows 
There  were  the  folds  for  the  sheep ; and  there,  in  his  feathered  seraglio, 
Strutted  the  lordly  turkey,  and  crowed  the  cock,  with  the  selfsame 
Voice  that  in  ages  of  old  had  startled  the  penitent  Peter. 

Bursting  with  hay  were  the  barns,  themselves  a village.  In  each  one 
Far  o’er  the  gable  projected  a roof  of  thatch ; and  a staircase, 

Under  the  sheltering  eaves,  led  up  to  the  odorous  corn-loft. 

There  too  the  dove-cot  stood,  with  its  meek  and  innocent  inmates 
Murmuring  ever  of  love  ; while  above  in  the  variant  breezes 
Numberless  noisy  weathercocks  rattled  and.  sang  of  mutation. 

Thus,  at  peace  with  God  and  the  world,  the  farmer  of  Grand  Pro 
Lived  on  his  sunny  farm,  and  Evangeline  governed  his  household. 

Many  a youth,  as  he  knelt  in  church  and  opened  his  missal, 

Fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  as  the  saint  of  his  deepest  devotion  ; 

Happy  was  he  who  might  touch  her  hand  or  the  hem  of  her  garment ! 

Many  a suitor  came  to  her  door,  by  the  darkness  befriended, 

And,  as  he  knocked  and  waited  to  hear  the  sound  of  her  footsteps, 

Knew  not  which  beat  the  louder,  his  heart  or  the  knocker  of  iron ; 

Or  at  the  joyous  feast  of  the  Patron  Saint  of  the  village, 

Bolder  grew,  and  pressed  her  hand  in  the  dance  as  he  whispered 
Hurried  words  of  love,  that  seemed  a part  of  the  music. 

But,  among  all  who  came,  young  Gabriel  only  was  welcome  ; 

Gabriel  Lejeunesse,  the  son  of  Basil  the  blacksmith, 

Who  was  a mighty  man  in  the  village,  and  honored  of  all  men  ; 

For,  since  the  birth  of  time,  throughout  all  ages  and  nations, 

Has  the  craft  of  the  smith  been  held  in  repute  by  the  people. 

Basil  was  Benedict’s  friend.  Their  children  from  earliest  childhood 
Grew  up  together  as  brother  and  sister;  and  Father  Felician, 

Priest  and  pedagogue  both  in  the  village,  had  taught  them  their  letters 
Out  of  the  selfsame  book,  with  the  hymns  of  the  church  and  the  plain-song. 
But  when  the  hymn  was  sung,  and  the  daily  lesson  completed, 

Swiftly  they  hurried  away  to  the  forge  of  Basil  the  blacksmith. 

There  at  the  door  they  stood,  with  wondering  eyes  to  behold  him 
Take  in  his  leathern  lap  the  hoof  of  the  horse  as  a plaything, 

Nailing  the  shoe  in  its  place ; while  near  him  the  tire  of  the  cart-wheel 
Lay  like  a fiery  snake,  coiled  round  in  a circle  of  cinders. 

Oft  on  autumnal  eves,  when  without  in  the  gathering  darkness 
Bursting  with  light  seemed  the  smithy,  through  every  cranny  and  crevice, 
Warm  by  the  forge  within  they  watched  the  laboring  bellows, 

And  as  its  panting  ceased,  and  the  sparks  expired  in  the  ashes, 

Merrily  laughed,  and  said  they  were  nuns  going  into  the  chapel. 

( )ft  on  sledges  in  winter,  as  swift  as  the  swoop  of  the  eagle, 

Down  the  hillside  bounding,  they  glided  away  o’er  the  meadow. 

Oft  in  the  barns  they  climbed  to  the  populous  nests  on  the  rafters, 

Seeking  with  eager  eyes  that  wondrous  stone,  which  the  swallow 
Brings  from  the  shore  of  the  sea  to  restore  the  sight  of  its  fledglings  ; 

Lucky  was  he  who  found  that  stone  in  the  nest  of  the  swallow! 

Thus  passed  a few  swift  years  and  they  no  longer  were  children. 

He  was  a valiant  youth,  and  his  face,  like  the  face  of  the  morning, 


152 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Gladdened  the  earth  with  its  light,  and  ripened  thought  into  action. 

She  was  a woman  now,  with  the  heart  and  hopes  of  a woman. 

“Sunshine  of  Saint  Eulalie’’  was  she  called;  for  that  was  the  sunshine 
Which,  as  the  farmers  believed,  would  load  their  orchards  with  apples ; 

She,  too,  would  bring  to  her  husband's  house  delight  and  abundance, 

Filling  it  with  love  and  the  ruddy  faces  of  children. 

II. 

Now  had  the  season  returned,  when  the  nights  grow  colder  and  longer, 

And  the  retreating  sun  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion  enters. 

Birds  of  passage  sailed  through  the  leaden  air,  from  the  ice-bound, 

Desolate  northern  bays  to  the  shores  of  tropical  islands. 

Harvests  were  gathered  in ; and  wild  with  the  winds  of  September 
Wrestled  the  trees  of  the  forest,  as  Jacob  of  old  with  the  angel. 

All  the  signs  foretold  a winter  long  and  inclement. 

Bees,  with  prophetic  instinct  of  want,  had  hoarded  their  honey 
Till  the  hives  overflowed;  and  the  Indian  hunters  asserted 
Cold  woidd  the  winter  be,  for  thick  was  the  fur  of  the  foxes. 

Such  was  the  advent  of  autumn.  Then  followed  that  beautiful  season, 

Called  by  the  pious  Acadian  peasants  the  Summer  of  All-Saints ! 

Filled  was  the  air  with  a dreamy  and  magical  light ; and  the  landscape 
Lay  as  if  new-created  in  all  the  freshness  of  childhood. 

Peace  seemed  to  reign  upon  earth,  and  the  restless  heart  of  the  ocean 
Was  for  a moment  consoled.  All  sounds  were  in  harmony  blended. 

Voices  of  children  at  play,  the  crowing  of  cocks  in  the  farm-yards, 

Whir  of  wings  in  the  drowsy  air,  and  the  cooing  of  pigeons, 

All  were  subdued  and  low  as  the  murmurs  of  love,  and  the  great  sun 
Looked  with  the  eye  of  love  through  the  golden  vapors  around  him  ; 

While  arrayed  in  its  robes  of  russet  and  scarlet  and  yellow. 

Bright  with  the  sheen  of  the  dew,  each  glittering  tree  of  the  forest 
Flashed  like  the  plane-tree  the  Persian  adorned  with  mantles  and  jewels. 

Now  recommenced  the  reign  of  rest  and  affection  and  stillness. 

Day  with  its  burden  and  heat  had  departed,  and  twilight  descending 
Brought  back  the  evening  star  to  the  sky,  and  the  herds  to  the  homestead. 
Pawing  the  ground  they  came,  and  resting  their  necks  on  each  other, 

And  with  their  nostrils  distended  inhaling  the  freshness  of  evening. 

Foremost,  bearing  the  bell,  Evangeline’s  beautiful  heifer, 

Proud  of  her  snow-white  hide,  and  the  ribbon  that  waved  from  her  collar, 
Quietly  paced  and  slow,  as  if  conscious  of  human  affection. 

Then  came  the  shepherd  back  with  his  bleating  flocks  from  the  seaside, 
Where  was  their  favorite  pasture.  Behind  them  followed  the  watch-dog. 
Patient,  full  of  importance,  and  grand  in  the  pride  of  his  instinct, 

Walking  from  side  to  side  with  a lordly  air,  and  superbly 
Waving  his  bushy  tail,  and  urging  forward  the  stragglers  ; 

Regent  of  flocks  was  he  when  the  shepherd  slept ; their  protector, 

When  from  the  forest  at  night,  through  the  starry  silence  the  wolves  howled. 
Late,  with  the  rising  moon,  returned  the  wains  from  the  marshes, 

Laden  with  briny  hay,  that  tilled  the  air  with  its  odor. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


153 


Cheerily  neighed  the  steeds,  with  dew  on  their  manes  and  their  fetlocks, 
While  aloft  on  their  shoulders  the  wooden  and  ponderous  saddles, 

Painted  with  brilliant  dyes,  and  adorned  with  tassels  of  crimson, 

Nodded  in  bright  array,  like  hollyhocks  heavy  with  blossoms. 

Patiently  stood  the  cows  meanwhile,  and  yielded  their  udders 
Unto  the  milkmaid’s  hand ; whilst  loud  and  in  regular  cadence 
Into  the  sounding  pails  the  foaming  streamlets  descended. 

Lowing  of  cattle  and  peals  of  laughter  were  heard  in  the  farm-yard, 

Echoed  back  by  the  barns.  Anon  they  sank  into  stillness ; 

Heavily  closed,  with  a jarring  sound,  the  valves  of  the  barn-doors, 

Rattled  the  wooden  bars,  and  all  for  a season  was  silent. 

In-doors,  warm  by  the  wide-mouthed  fireplace,  idly  the  farmer 
Sat  in  his  elbow-chair  and  watched  how  the  flames  and  the  smoke-wreaths 
Struggled  together  like  foes  in  a burning  city.  Behind  him, 

Nodding  and  mocking  along  the  wall,  with  gestures  fantastic, 

Darted  his  own  huge  shadow,  and  vanished  away  into  darkness. 

Faces,  clumsily  carved  in  oak,  on  the  back  of  his  arm-chair 
Laughed  in  the  flickering  light ; and  the  pewter  plates  on  the  dresser 
Caught  and  reflected  the  flame,  as  shields  of  armies  the  sunshine. 

Fragments  of  song  the  old  man  sang,  and  carols  of  Christmas, 

Such  as  at  home,  in  the  olden  time,  his  fathers  before  him 
Sang  in  their  Norman  orchards  and  bright  Burgundian  vineyards. 

Close  at  her  father’s  side  was  the  gentle  Evangeline  seated, 

Spinning  flax  for  the  loom,  that  stood  in  the  corner  behind  her, 

Silent  awhile  were  its  treadles,  at  rest  was  its  diligent  shuttle, 

While  the  monotonous  drone  of  the  wheel,  like  the  drone  of  a bagpipe, 
Followed  the  old  man’s  song  and  united  the  fragments  together. 

As  in  a church,  when  the  chant  of  the  choir  at  intervals  ceases, 

Footfalls  are  heard  in  the  aisles,  or  words  of  the  priest  at  the  altar, 

So,  in  each  pause  of  the  song,  with  measured  motion  the  clock  clicked 

Thus  as  they  sat,  there  were  footsteps  heard,  and,  suddenly  lifted, 
Sounded  the  wooden  latch,  and  the  door  swung  back  on  its  hinges. 

Benedict  knew  by  the  hob-nailed  shoes  it  was  Basil  the  blacksmith, 

And  by  her  beating  heart  Evangeline  knew  who  was  with  him. 
“Welcome!”  the  farmer  exclaimed,  as  their  footsteps  paused  on  the  threshold 
“Welcome,  Basil,  my  friend!  Come,  take  thy  place  on  the  settle 
Close  by  the  chimney-side,  which  is  always  empty  without  thee; 

Take  from  the  shelf  overhead  thy  pipe  and  the  box  of  tobacco  ; 

Never  so  much  thyself  art  thou  as  when  through  the  curling 
Smoke  of  the  pipe  or  the  forge  thy  friendly  and  jovial  face  gleams 
Round  and  red  as  the  harvest  moon  through  the  mist  of  the  marshes.” 

Then,  with  a smile  of  content,  thus  answered  Basil  the  blacksmith, 

Taking  with  easy  air  the  accustomed  seat  by  the  fireside  : — 

“ Benedict  Bellefontaine,  thou  hast  ever  thy  jest  and  thy  ballad  ! 

Ever  in  cheerfullest  mood  art  thou,  when  others  are  filled  with 
(Roomy  forebodings  of  ill,  and  see  only  ruin  before  them. 

Happy  art  thou,  as  if  every  day  thou  hadst  picked  up  a horseshoe.” 

Pausing  a moment,  to  take  the  pipe  that  Evangeline  brought  him, 

20 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  01 


And  with  a coal  from  the  embers  had  lighted,  he  slowly  continued  : — 

“ Four  days  now  are  passed  since  the  English  ships  at  their  anchors 
Hide  in  the  Gaspereau’s  mouth,  with  their  cannon  pointed  against  us. 
What  their  design  may  be  is  unknown ; but  all  are  commanded 
( )n  the  morrow  to  meet  in  the  church,  where  Ins  Majesty’s  mandate 
Will  be  proclaimed  as  law  in  the  land.  Alas ! in  the  mean  time 
Many  surmises  of  evil  alarm  the  hearts  of  the  people.” 

Then  made  answer  the  farmer : “ Perhaps  some  friendlier  purpose 
Brings  these  ships  to  our  shores.  Perhaps  the  harvests  in  England 
By  untimely  rains  or  untimelier  heat  have  been  blighted, 

And  from  our  bursting  barns  they  would  feed  their  cattle  and  children.” 
u Not  so  thinketh  the  folk  in  the  village,”  said,  warmly,  the  blacksmith, 
Shaking  his  head,  as  in  doubt ; then,  heaving  a sigh,  he  continued : — 

- Louisburg  is  not  forgotten,  nor  Beau  Sejour,  nor  Port  Royal. 

Many  already  have  lied  to  the  forest,  and  lurk  on  its  outskirts. 

Waiting  with  anxious  hearts  the  dubious  fate  of  to-morrow. 

Arms  have  been  taken  from  us,  and  warlike  weapons  of  all  kinds ; 
Nothing  is  left  but  the  blacksmith’s  sledge  and  the  scythe  of  the  mower.' 
Then  with  a pleasant  smile  made  answer  the  jovial  farmer  : — 
k‘  Safer  are  we  unarmed,  in  the  midst  of  our  flocks  and  our  cornfields, 

Safer  within  these  peaceful  dikes,  besieged  by  the  ocean, 

Than  our  fathers  in  forts,  besieged  by  the  enemy’s  cannon. 

Fear  no  evil,  my  friend,  and  to-night  may  no  shadow  of  sorrow 


HEN  II  V IV  A ns  w 0 R 77/  L ON  OF  EL  /,  O IV. 


loo 


Fall  on  this  house  and  hearth ; for  this  is  the  night  of  the  contract. 

Built  are  the  house  and  the  barn.  The  merry  lads  of  the  village 

Strongly  have  built  them  and  well  ; and,  breaking  the  glebe  round  about  them, 

Filled  the  barn  with  hay,  and  the  house  with  food  for  a twelvemonth. 

Rend  Leblanc  will  be  here  anon,  with  his  papers  and  inkhorn. 

Shall  we  not  then  be  glad,  and  rejoice  in  the  joy  of  our  children  ? ” 

As  apart  by  the  window  she  stood,  with  her  hand  in  her  lover’s, 

Blushing  Evangeline  heard  the  words  that  her  father  had  spoken, 

And,  as  they  died  on  his  lips,  the  worthy  notary  entered. 

III. 

Bent  like  a laboring  oar,  that  toils  in  the  surf  of  the  ocean, 

Bent,  but  not  broken,  by  age  was  the  form  of  the  notary  public  ; 

Shocks  of  yellow  hair,  like  the  silken  Hoss  of  the  maize,  hung 

Over  his  shoulders;  his  forehead  was  high;  and  glasses  with  horn  bows 

Sat  astride  on  his  nose,  with  a look  of  wisdom  supernal. 

Father  of  twenty  children  was  he,  and  more  than  a hundred 
Children’s  children  rode  on  his  knee,  and  heard  his  great  watch  tick. 

Four  long  years  in  the  times  of  the  war  had  lie  languished  a captive. 

Suffering  much  in  an  old  French  fort  as  the  friend  of  the  English. 

Now,  though  warier  grown,  without  all  guile  or  suspicion, 

Ripe  in  wisdom  was  he,  but  patient,  and  simple,  and  childlike. 

He  was  beloved  by  all,  and  most  of  all  by  the  children  ; 

For  he  told  them  tales  of  the  Loup-garou  in  the  forest, 

And  of  the  goblin  that  came  in  the  night  to  water  the  horses, 

And  of  the  white  Letiche,  the  ghost  of  a child  who  unchristened 
Died,  and  was  doomed  to  haunt  unseen  the  chambers  of  children  ; 

And  how  on  Christmas  eve  the  oxen  talked  in  the  stable, 

And  how  the  fever  was  cured  by  a spider  shut  up  in  a nutshell, 

And  of  the  marvellous  powers  of  four-leaved  clover  and  horseshoes, 

With  whatsoever  else  was  writ  in  the  lore  of  the  village. 

Then  up  rose  from  his  seat  by  the  fireside  Basil  the  blacksmith, 

Knocked  from  his  pipe  the  ashes,  and  slowly  extending  his  right  hand, 
u Father  Leblanc,”  he  exclaimed,  “ thou  hast  heard  the  talk  in  the  village. 

And,  perchance,  canst  tell  us  some  news  of  these  ships  and  their  errand." 

Then  with  modest  demeanor  made  answer  the  notary  public,  — 

“ Gossip  enough  have  I heard,  in  sooth,  yet  am  never  the  wiser  ; 

And  what  their  errand  may  be  I know  not  better  than  others. 

Yet  am  I not  of  those  who  imagine  some  evil  intention 

Brings  them  here,  for  we  are  at  peace;  and  why  then  molest  us?” 

“ God’s  name  ! ” shouted  the  hasty  and  somewhat  irascible  blacksmith  ; 

“ Must  we  in  all  things  look  for  the  how,  and  the  why,  and  the  wherefore  ? 
Daily  injustice  is  done,  and  might  is  the  right  of  the  strongest ! ” 

But  without  heeding  his  warmth,  continued  the  notary  public,  — 

“Man  is  unjust,  but  God  is  just;  and  finally  justice 
Triumphs ; and  well  I remember  a story,  that  often  consoled  me, 

When  as  a captive  I lay  in  the  old  French  fort  at  Port  Royal.” 

This  was  the  old  man’s  favorite  tale,  and  he  loved  to  repeat  it 
When  his  neighbors  complained  that  any  injustice  was  done  them. 

“ Once  in  an  ancient  city,  whose  name  I no  longer  remember, 


156 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Raised  aloft  on  a column,  a brazen  statue  of  Justice 

Stood  in  the  public  square,  upholding  the  scales  in  its  left  hand, 

And  in  its  right  a sword,  as  an  emblem  that  justice  presided 
Over  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  the  hearts  and  homes  of  the  people. 

Even  the  birds  had  built  their  nests  in  the  scales  of  the  balance, 

Having  no  fear  of  the  sword  that  flashed  in  the  sunshine  above  them. 

But  in  the  course  of  time  the  laws  of  the  land  were  corrupted ; 

Might  took  the  place  of  right,  and  the  weak  were  oppressed,  and  the  mighty 
Ruled  with  an  iron  rod.  Then  it  chanced  in  a nobleman’s  palace 
That  a necklace  of  pearls  was  lost,  and  erelong  a suspicion 
Fell  on  an  orphan  girl  who  lived  as  a maid  in  the  household. 

She,  after  form  of  trial  condemned  to  die  on  the  scaffold, 

Patiently  met  her  doom  at  the  foot  of  the  statue  of  Justice. 

As  to  her  Father  in  heaven  her  innocent  spirit  ascended, 

Lo ! o'er  the  city  a tempest  rose  ; and  the  bolts  of  the  thunder 
Smote  the  statue  of  bronze,  and  hurled  in  wrath  from  its  left  hand 
Down  on  the  pavement  below  the  clattering  scales  of  the  balance, 

And  in  the  hollow  thereof  was  found  the  nest  of  a magpie, 

Into  whose  clay-built  walls  the  necklace  of  pearls  was  inwoven.” 

Silenced,  but  not  convinced,  when  the  story  was  ended,  the  blacksmith 
Stood  like  a man  who  fain  would  speak,  but  findeth  no  language ; 

All  his  thoughts  were  congealed  into  lines  on  his  face,  as  the  vapors 
Freeze  in  fantastic  shapes  on  the  window-panes  in  the  winter. 


HENR  Y WADS  IVOR  TH  L ON G FELL  0 W. 


157 


Then  Evangeline  lighted  the  brazen  lamp  on  the  table, 

Filled,  till  it  overflowed,  the  pewter  tankard  with  home-brewed 

Nut-brown  ale,  that  was  famed  for  its  strength  in  the  village  of  Grand  Pr£ ; 

While  from  his  pocket  the  notary  drew  his  papers  and  inkhorn, 

Wrote  with  a steady  hand  the  date  and  the  age  of  the  parties, 

Naming  the  dower  of  the  bride  in  flocks  of  sheep  and  in  cattle. 

Orderly  all  things  proceeded,  and  duly  and  well  were  completed, 

And  the  great  seal  of  the  law  was  set  like  a sun  on  the  margin. 

Then  from  his  leathern  pouch  the  farmer  threw  on  the  table 
Three  times  the  old  man’s  fee  in  solid  pieces  of  silver ; 

And  the  notary  rising,  and  blessing  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom, 

Lifted  aloft  the  tankard  of  ale  and  drank  to  their  welfare. 

Wiping  the  foam  from  his  lip,  he  solemnly  bowed  and  departed, 

While  in  silence  the  others  sat  and  mused  by  the  fireside, 

Till  Evangeline  brought  the  draught-board  out  of  its  corner. 

Soon  was  the  game  begun.  In  friendly  contention  the  old  men 
Laughed  at  each  lucky  hit,  or  unsuccessful  manoeuvre, 

Laughed  when  a man  was  crowned,  or  a breach  was  made  in  the  king-row. 
Meanwhile  apart,  in  the  twilight  gloom  of  a window’s  embrasure, 

Sat  the  lovers,  and  whispered  together,  beholding  the  moon  rise 
Over  the  pallid  sea,  and  the  silvery  mists  of  the  meadows. 

Silently  one  by  one,  in  the  infinite  meadows  of  heaven, 

Blossomed  the  lovely  stars,  the  forget-me-nots  of  the  angels. 

Thus  was  the  evening  passed.  Anon  the  bell  from  the  belfry 
Rang  out  the  hour  of  nine,  the  village  curfew,  and  straightway 
Rose  the  guests  and  departed ; and  silence  reigned  in  the  household. 

Many  a farewell  word  and  sweet  good-night  on  the  door-step 
Lingered  long  in  Evangeline’s  heart,  and  filled  it  with  gladness. 

Carefully  then  were  covered  the  embers  that  glowed  on  the  liearth-stone, 

And  on  the  oaken  stairs  resounded  the  tread  of  the  farmer. 

Soon  with  a soundless  step  the  foot  of  Evangeline  followed. 

Up  the  staircase  moved  a luminous  space  in  the  darkness, 

Lighted  less  by  the  lamp  than  the  shining  face  of  the  maiden. 

Silent  she  passed  the  hall,  and  entered  the  door  of  her  chamber. 

Simple  that  chamber  was,  with  its  curtains  of  white,  and  its  clothes-press 
Ample  and  high,  on  whose  spacious  shelves  were  carefully  folded 
Linen  and  woollen  stuffs,  by  the  hand  of  Evangeline  woven. 

This  was  the  precious  dower  she  would  bring  to  her  husband  in  marriage, 

Better  than  flocks  and  herds,  being  proofs  of  her  skill  as  a housewife. 

Soon  she  extinguished  her  lamp,  for  the  mellow  and  radiant  moonlight 
Streamed  through  the  windows,  and  lighted  the  room,  till  the  heart  of  the  maiden 
Swelled  and  obeyed  its  power,  like  the  tremulous  tides  of  the  ocean. 

Ah ! she  was  fair,  exceeding  fair  to  behold,  as  she  stood  with 
Naked  snow-white  feet  on  the  gleaming  floor  of  her  chamber ! 

Little  she  dreamed  that  below,  among  the  trees  of  the  orchard, 

Waited  her  lover  and  watched  for  the  gleam  of  her  lamp  and  her  shadow. 

Yet  were  her  thoughts  of  him,  and  at  times  a feeling  of  sadness 
Passed  o’er  her  soul,  as  the  sailing  shade  of  clouds  in  the  moonlight 
Flitted  across  the  floor  and  darkened  the  room  for  a moment. 


158 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


And,  as  she  gazed  from  the  window,  she  saw  serenely  the  moon  pass 
Forth  from  the  folds  of  a cloud,  and  one  star  follow  her  footsteps, 

As  out  of  Abraham’s  tent  young  Ishmael  wandered  with  Hagar ! 

. IV. 

Pleasantly  rose  next  morn  the  sun  on  the  village  of  Grand  Pr£. 
Pleasantly  gleamed  in  the  soft,  sweet  air  the  Basin  of  Minas, 

Where  the  ships,  with  their  wavering  shadows,  were  riding  at  anchor. 
Life  had  long  been  astir  in  the  village,  and  clamorous  labor 
Knocked  with  its  hundred  hands  at  the  golden  gates  of  the  morning. 
Now  from  the  country  around,  from  the  farms  and  neighboring  hamlets, 
Came  in  their  holiday  dresses  the  blithe  Acadian  peasants. 


Many  a glad  good-morrow  and  jocund  laugh  from  the  young  folk 
Made  the  bright  air  brighter,  as  up  from  the  numerous  meadows, 

Where  no  path  could  be  seen  but  the  track  of  wheels  in  the  greensward, 
Group  after  group  appeared,  and  joined,  or  passed  on  the  highway. 

Long  ere  noon,  in  the  village  all  sounds  of  labor  were  silenced. 

Thronged  were  the  streets  with  people ; and  noisy  groups  at  the  house-doors 
Sat  in  the  cheerful  sun,  and  rejoiced  and  gossiped  together. 

Every  house  was  an  inn,  where  all  were  welcomed  and  feasted ; 

For  with  this  simple  people,  who  lived  like  brothers  together, 

All  things  were  held  in  common,  and  what  one  had  was  another’s. 


IIENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


159 


Yet  under  Benedict’s  roof  hospitality  seemed  more  abundant : 

For  Evangeline  stood  among  the  guests  of  her  father ; 

Bright  was  her  face  with  smiles,  and  words  of  welcome  and  gladness 
Fell  from  her  beautiful  lips,  and  blessed  the  cup  as  she  gave  it. 

Under  the  open  sky,  in  the  odorous  air  of  the  orchard, 

Stript  of  its  golden  fruit,  was  spread  the  feast  of  betrothal. 

There  in  the  shade  of  the  porch  were  the  priest  and  the  notary  seated ; 
There  good  Benedict  sat,  and  sturdy  Basil  the  blacksmith. 

Not  far  withdrawn  from  these,  by  the  cider-press  and  the  beehives, 

Michael  the  tiddler  Avas  placed,  with  the  gayest  of  hearts  and  of  Avaisteoats. 
Shadow  and  light  from  the  leaves  alternately  played  on  his  snow-white 
Hair,  as  it  waved  in  the  wind ; and  the  jolly  face  of  the  fiddler 
Glowed  like  a living  coal  when  the  ashes  are  bloAvn  from  the  embers. 

Gayly  the  old  man  sang  to  the  vibrant  sound  of  his  fiddle, 

Tous  les  Bourgeois  de  Chartres , and  Le  Carillon  de  Dunkerque , 

And  anon  with  his  wooden  shoes  beat  time  to  the  music. 

Merrily,  merrily  Avhirled  the  Avheels  of  the  dizzying  dances 
Under  the  orchard-trees  and  doAvn  the  path  to  the  meadows; 

Old  folk  and  young  together,  and  children  mingled  among  them 
Fairest  of  all  the  maids  AA'as  Evangeline,  Benedict’s  daughter  ! 

Noblest  of  all  the  youths  Avas  Gabriel,  son  of  the  blacksmith  ! 

So  passed  the  morning  away.  And  lo ! with  a summons  sonorous 
Sounded  the  bell  from  its  toAver,  and  o\rer  the  meadows  a drum  beat. 
Thronged  erelong  Avas  the  church  Avitli  men.  Without,  in  the  churchyard, 
Waited  the  women.  They  stood  by  the  graves,  and  hung  on  the  headstones 
Garlands  of  autumn-leaves  and  evergreens  fresh  from  the  forest, 


160 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Then  came  the  guard  from  the  ships,  and  marching  proudly  among  them 

Entered  the  sacred  portal.  With  loud  and  dissonant  clangor 

Echoed  the  sound  of  their  brazen  drums  from  ceiling  and  casement,  — 

Echoed  a moment  only,  and  slowly  the  ponderous  portal 

Closed,  and  in  silence  the  crowd  awaited  the  will  of  the  soldiers. 

Then  uprose  their  commander,  and  spake  from  the  steps  of  the  altar, 
Holding  aloft  in  his  hands,  with  its  seals,  the  royal  commission. 

“ You  are  convened  this  day,"  he  said,  “ by  his  Majesty’s  orders. 

Clement  and  kind  has  he  been;  but  how  you  have  answered  his  kindness, 
Let  your  own  hearts  reply ! To  my  natural  make  and  my  temper 
Painful  the  task  is  1 do,  which  to  you  1 know  must  be  grievous. 

Yet  must  I bow  and  obey,  and  deliver  the  will  of  our  monarch  ; 

Namely,  that  all  your  lands,  and  dwellings,  and  cattle  of  all  kinds 
Forfeited  be  to  the  crown;  and  that  you  yourselves  from  this  province 
Be  transported  to  other  lands.  God  grant  you  may  dwell  there 
Ever  as  faithful  subjects,  a happy  and  peaceable  people  ! 

Prisoners  now  1 declare  you  ; for  such  is  his  Majesty’s  pleasure ! ” 

As,  when  the  air  is  serene  in  sultry  solstice  of  summer, 

Suddenly  gathers  a storm,  and  the  deadly  sling  of  the  hailstones 
Beats  down  the  farmer’s  corn  in  the  field  and  shatters  his  windows, 

Hiding  the  sun,  and  strewing  the  ground  with  thatch  from  the  house-roofs, 
Bellowing  fly  the  herds,  and  seek  to  break  their  enclosures ; 

So  on  the  hearts  of  the  people  descended  the  words  of  the  speaker. 

Silent  a moment  they  stood  in  speechless  wonder,  and  then  rose 
Louder  and  ever  louder  a wail  of  sorrow  and  anger, 

And,  by  one  impulse  moved,  they  madly  rushed  to  the  door-way. 

Vain  Avas  the  hope  of  escape  ; and  cries  and  fierce  imprecations 

Rang  through  the  house  of  prayer  ; and  high  o’er  the  heads  of  the  others 

Rose,  with  his  arms  uplifted,  the  figure  of  Basil  the  blacksmith, 

As,  on  a stormy  sea,  a spar  is  tossed  by  the  billows. 

Flushed  was  his  face  and  distorted  Avith  passion  ; and  wildly  he  shouted,  — 
“ Doavii  Avith  the  tyrants  of  England  ! Ave  never  have  sworn  them  allegiance  ! 
Death  to  these  foreign  soldiers,  Avho  seize  on  our  homes  and  our  harvests  ! ” 
More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  the  merciless  hand  of  a soldier 
Smote  him  upon  the  mouth,  and  dragged  him  down  to  the  pavement. 

In  the  midst  of  the  strife  and  tumult  of  angry  contention, 

Lo  ! the  door  of  the  chancel  opened,  and  Father  Felician 
Entered,  Avith  serious  mien,  and  ascended  the  steps  of  the  altar. 

Raising  his  reverend  hand,  with  a gesture  he  aAved  into  silence 
All  that  clamorous  throng  ; and  thus  he  spake  to  his  people  ; 

Deep  Avere  his  tones  and  solemn  ; in  accents  measured  and  mournful 
Spake  he,  as,  after  the  tocsin’s  alarum,  distinctly  the  clock  strikes. 

“ What  is  this  that  ye  do,  my  children  ? Avhat  madness  has  seized  you  ? 

Forty  years  of  my  life  have  I labored  among  you,  and  taught  you, 

Not  in  Avord  alone,  but  in  deed,  to  love  one  another? 

Is  this  the  fruit  of  my  toils,  of  my  vigils  and  prayers  and  privations  ? 

Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  all  lessons  of  love  and  forgiveness  ? 

This  is  the  house  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  and  Avould  you  profane  it 
Thus  with  violent  deeds  and  hearts  overflowing  Avith  hatred  ? 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


161 


Lo  ! where  the  crucified  Christ  from  his  cross  is  gazing  upon  you  ! 

See ! in  those  sorrowful  eyes  what  meekness  and  holy  compassion  ! 

Hark  ! how  those  lips  still  repeat  the  prayer,  ‘ O Father,  forgive  them  ! ’ 

Let  us  repeat  that  prayer  in  the  hour  when  the  wicked  assail  us, 

Let  us  repeat  it  now,  and  say,  ‘ O Father,  forgive  them  ! ’ ” 

Few  were  his  words  of  rebuke,  but  deep  in  the  hearts  of  his  people 
Sank  they,  and  sobs  of  contrition  succeeded  the  passionate  outbreak, 

While  they  repeated  his  prayer,  and  said,  “ O Father,  forgive  them  ! ” 

Then  came  the  evening  service.  The  tapers  gleamed  from  the  altar. 
Fervent  and  deep  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  the  people  responded, 

Not  with  their  lips  alone,  but  their  hearts;  and  the  Ave  Maria 

Sang  they,  and  fell  on  their  knees,  and  their  souls,  with  devotion  translated, 

Rose  on  the  ardor  of  prayer,  like  Elijah  ascending  to  heaven. 

Meanwhile  had  spread  in  the  village  the  tidings  of  ill,  and  on  all  sides 
Wandered,  waiting,  from  house  to  house  the  women  and  children. 

Long  at  her  father's  door  Evangeline  stood,  with  her  right  hand 


162 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Shielding  her  eyes  from  the  level  rays  of  the  sun,  that,  descending, 

Lighted  the  village  street  with  mysterious  splendor,  and  roofed  each 
Peasant's  cottage  with  golden  thatch,  and  emblazoned  its  windows. 

Long  within  had  been  spread  the  snow-white  cloth  on  the  table  ; 

There  stood  the  wheaten  loaf,  and  the  honey  fragrant  with  wild-flowers  ; 
There  stood  the  tankard  of  ale,  and  the  cheese  fresh  brought  from  the  dairy  , 
And,  at  the  head  of  the  board,  the  great  arm-chair  of  the  farmer. 

Thus  did  Evangeline  wait  at  her  father's  door,  as  the  sunset 
Threw  the  long  shadows  of  trees  o’er  the  broad  ambrosial  meadows. 

Ah ! on  her  spirit  within  a deeper  shadow  had  fallen, 

And  from  the  fields  of  her  soul  a fragrance  celestial  ascended,  — 

Charity,  meekness,  love,  and  hope,  and  forgiveness,  and  patience  ! 

Then,  all-forgetful  of  self,  she  wandered  into  the  village, 

Cheering  with  looks  and  words  the  mournful  hearts  of  the  women, 

As  o’er  the  darkening  fields  with  lingering  steps  they  departed, 

Urged  by  their  household  cares,  and  the  weary  feet  of  their  children. 

Down  sank  the  great  red  sun,  and  in  golden,  glimmering  vapors 
Veiled  the  light  of  his  face,  like  the  Prophet  descending  from  Sinai. 

Sweetly  over  the  village  the  bell  of  the  Angelus  sounded. 

Meanwhile,  amid  the  gloom,  by  the  church  Evangeline  lingered. 

All  was  silent  within  ; and  in  vain  at  the  door  and  the  windows 
Stood  she,  and  listened  and  looked,  till,  overcome  by  emotion, 

“ Gabriel ! ” cried  she  aloud  with  tremulous  voice  ; but  no  answer 
Came  from  the  graves  of  the  dead,  nor  the  gloomier  grave  of  the  living. 
Slowly  at  length  she  returned  to  the  tenantless  house  of  her  father. 
Smouldered  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  on  the  board  was  the  supper  untasted, 
Empty  and  drear  was  each  room,  and  haunted  with  phantoms  of  terror. 

Sadly  echoed  her  step  on  the  stair  and  the  floor  of  her  chamber. 

In  the  dead  of  the  night  she  heard  the  disconsolate  rain  fall 
Loud  on  the  withered  leaves  of  the  sycamore-tree  by  the  window. 

Keenly  the  lightning  flashed  ; and  the  voice  of  the  echoing  thunder 
Told  her  that  God  was  in  heaven,  and  governed  the  world  he  created  ! 

Then  she  remembered  the  tale  she  had  heard  of  the  justice  of  Heaven ; 
Soothed  was  her  troubled  soul,  and  she  peacefully  slumbered  till  morning. 

V. 

Four  times  the  sun  had  risen  and  set ; and  now  on  the  fifth  day 
Cheerily  called  the  cock  to  the  sleeping  maids  of  the  farm-house. 

Soon  o'er  the  yellow  fields,  in  silent  and  mournful  procession, 

Came  from  the  neighboring  hamlets  and  farms  the  Acadian  women, 

Driving  in  ponderous  wains  their  household  goods  to  the  sea-shore, 

Pausing  and  looking  back  to  gaze  once  more  on  their  dwellings, 

Ere  they  were  shut  from  sight  by  the  winding  road  and  the  woodland. 

Close  at  their  sides  their  children  ran,  and  urged  on  the  oxen. 

While  in  their  little  hands  they  clasped  some  fragments  of  playthings. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau’s  mouth  they  hurried ; and  there  on  the  sea-beach 
Piled  in  confusion  lay  the  household  goods  of  the  peasants. 


HENR  Y WA  DS  WOR  TH  L ONGFEL  L 0 IV. 


1G3 


All  day  long  between  the  shore  and  the  ships  did  the  boats  ply  ; 

All  day  long  the  wains  came  laboring  down  from  the  village. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  near  to  his  setting, 

Echoed  far  o’er  the  fields  came  the  roll  of  drums  from  the  churchyard. 

Thither  the  women  and  children  thronged.  On  a sudden  the  church-doors 
Opened,  and  forth  came  the  guard,  and  marching  in  gloomy  procession 
Followed  the  long-imprisoned,  but  patient,  Acadian  farmers. 

Even  as  pilgrims,  who  journey  afar  from  their  homes  and  their  country, 

Sing  as  they  go,  and  in  singing  forget  they  are  weary  and  wayworn, 

So  with  songs  on  their  lips  the  Acadian  peasants  descended 

Down  from  the  church  to  the  shore,  amid  their  wives  and  their  daughters. 

Foremost  the  young  men  came ; and,  raising  together  their  voices, 

Sang  with  tremulous  lips  a chant  of  the  Catholic  Missions : — 

“ Sacred  heart  of  the  Saviour ! O inexhaustible  fountain  ! 

Fill  our  hearts  this  day  with  strength  and  submission  and  patience  ! ” 

Then  the  old  men,  as  they  marched,  and  the  women  that  stood  by  the  wayside 
Joined  in  the  sacred  psalm,  and  the  birds  in  the  sunshine  above  them 
Mingled  their  notes  therewith,  like  voices  of  spirits  departed. 

Half-way  down  to  the  shore  Evangeline  waited  in  silence, 

Not  overcome  with  grief,  but  strong  in  the  hour  of  affliction,  — 

Calmly  and  sadly  she  waited,  until  the  procession  approached  her, 

And  she  beheld  the  face  of  Gabriel  pale  with  emotion. 

Tears  then  filled  her  eyes,  and,  eagerly  running  to  meet  him, 

Clasped  she  his  hands,  and  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  whispered, — 


164 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


“ Gabriel ! be  of  good  cheer ! for  if  we  love  one  another 
Nothing,  in  truth,  can  harm  us,  whatever  mischances  may  happen ! " 

Smiling  she  spake  these  words;  then  suddenly  paused,  for  her  father 
Saw  she  slowly  advancing.  Alas ! how  changed  was  his  aspect ! 

Gone  was  the  glow  from  his  cheek,  and  the  tire  from  his  eye,  and  his  footstep 
Heavier  seemed  with  the  weight  of  the  heavy  heart  in  his  bosom. 

But  with  a smile  and  a sigh,  she  clasped  his  neck  and  embraced  him, 

Speaking  words  of  endearment  where  words  of  comfort  availed  not. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau’s  mouth  moved  on  that  mournful  procession. 

There  disorder  prevailed,  and  the  tumult  and  stir  of  embarking. 

Busily  plied  the  freighted  boats ; and  in  the  confusion 

Wives  were  torn  from  their  husbands,  and  mothers,  too  late,  saw  their  children 
Left  on  the  land,  extending  their  arms,  with  wildest  entreaties. 

So  unto  separate  ships  were  Basil  and  Gabriel  carried, 

While  in  despair  on  the  shore  Evangeline  stood  with  her  father. 

Half  the  task  was  not  done  when  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  twilight 
Deepened  and  darkened  around ; and  in  haste  the  refluent  ocean 
Fled  away  from  the  shore,  and  left  the  line  of  the  sand-beach 
Covered  with  waifs  of  the  tide,  with  kelp  and  the  slippery  sea-weed. 

Farther  back  in  the  midst  of  the  household  goods  and  the  wagons, 

Like  to  a gypsy  camp,  or  a leaguer  after  a battle, 

All  escape  cut  off  by  the  sea,  and  the  sentinels  near  them, 

Lay  encamped  for  the  night  the  houseless  Acadian  farmers. 

Back  to  its  nethermost  caves  retreated  the  bellowing  ocean. 

Dragging  adown  the  beach  the  rattling  pebbles,  and  leaving 
Inland  and  far  up  the  shore  the  stranded  boats  of  the  sailors. 

Then,  as  the  night  descended,  the  herds  returned  from  their  pastures ; 

Sweet  was  the  moist  still  air  with  the  odor  of  milk  from  their  udders ; 

Lowing  they  waited,  and  long,  at  the  well-known  bars  of  the  farm-yard,  — 
Waited  and  looked  in  vain  for  the  voice  and  the  hand  of  the  milk-maid. 
Silence  reigned  in  the  streets ; from  the  church  no  Angelus  sounded, 

Rose  no  smoke  from  the  roofs,  and  gleamed  no  lights  from  the  windows. 

But  on  the  shores  meanwhile  the  evening  fires  had  been  kindled, 

Built  of  the  drift-wood  thrown  on  the  sands  from  wrecks  in  the  tempest. 

Round  them  shapes  of  gloom  and  sorrowful  faces  were  gathered, 

Voices  of  women  were  heard,  and  of  men,  and  the  crying  of  children. 

Onward  from  fire  to  fire,  as  from  hearth  to  hearth  in  his  parish, 

Wandered  the  faithful  priest,  consoling  and  blessing  and  cheering, 

Like  unto  shipwrecked  Paul  on  Melita’s  desolate  sea-shore. 

Thus  he  approached  the  place  where  Evangeline  sat  with  her  father, 

And  in  the  flickering  light  beheld  the  face  of  the  old  man, 

Haggard  and  hollow  and  wan,  and  without  either  thought  or  emotion, 

E’en  as  the  face  of  a clock  from  which  the  hands  have  been  taken. 

Vainly  Evangeline  strove  with  words  and  caresses  to  cheer  him, 

Vainly  offered  him  food;  yet  he  moved  not,  he  looked  not,  he  spake  not, 

But,  with  a vacant  stare,  ever  gazed  at  the  flickering  fire-light. 

“ Benedicite  ! ” murmured  the  priest,  in  tones  of  compassion. 

More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  his  heart  was  full,  and  his  accents 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


Faltered  and  paused  on  his  lips,  as  the  feet  of  a child  on  the  threshold, 
Hushed  by  the  scene  he  beholds,  and  the  awful  presence  of  sorrow. 

Silently,  therefore,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  head  of  the  maiden, 

Raising  his  tearful  eyes  to  the  silent  stars  that  above  them 

Moved  on  their  way,  unperturbed  by  the  wrongs  and  sorrows  of  mortals. 

Then  sat  he  down  at  her  side,  and  they  wept  together  in  silence. 

Suddenly  rose  from  the  south  a light,  as  in  autumn  the  blood-red 
Moon  climbs  the  crystal  walls  of  heaven,  and  o’er  the  horizon 
Titan-like  stretches  its  hundred  hands  upon  the  mountain  and  meadow, 

Seizing  the  rocks  and  the  rivers,  and  piling  huge  shadows  together. 

Broader  and  ever  broader  it  gleamed  on  the  roofs  of  the  village, 

Gleamed  on  the  sky  and  sea,  and  the  ships  that  lay  in  the  roadstead. 
Columns  of  shining  smoke  uprose,  and  flashes  of  flame  were 
Thrust  through  their  folds  and  withdrawn,  like  the  quivering  hands  of  a mar 
Then  as  the  wind  seized  the  gleeds  and  the  burning  thatch,  and,  uplifting, 
Whirled  them  aloft  through  the  air,  at  once  from  a hundred  house-tops 
Started  the  sheeted  smoke  with  flashes  of  flame  intermingled. 

These  things  beheld  in  dismay  the  crowd  on  the  shore  and  on  shipboard. 
Speechless  at  first  they  stood,  then  cried  aloud  in  their  anguish, 

“We  shall  behold  no  more  our  homes  in  the  village  of  Grand-Prd  ! ” 

Loud  on  a sudden  the  cocks  began  to  crow  in  the  farm-yards, 

Thinking  the  day  had  dawned ; and  anon  the  lowing  of  cattle 
Came  on  the  evening  breeze,  by  the  barking  of  dogs  interrupted. 

Then  rose  a sound  of  dread,  such  as  startles  the  sleeping  encampments 
Far  in  the  western  prairies  or  forests  that  skirt  the  Nebraska, 

When  the  wild  horses  affrighted  sweep  by  with  the  speed  of  the  whirlwind, 
Or  the  loud  bellowing  herds  of  buffaloes  rush  to  the  river. 

Such  was  the  sound  that  arose  on  the  night,  as  the  herds  and  the  horses 
Broke  through  their  folds  and  fences,  and  madly  rushed  o’er  the  meadows. 

Overwhelmed  with  the  sight,  yet  speechless,  the  priest  and  the  maiden 
Gazed  on  the  scene  of  terror  that  reddened  and  widened  before  them  ; 

And  as  they  turned  at  length  to  speak  to  their  silent  companion, 

Lo  ! from  his  seat  he  had  fallen,  and  stretched  abroad  on  the  sea-shore 
Motionless  lay  his  form,  from  which  the  soul  had  departed. 

Slowly  the  priest  uplifted  the  lifeless  head,  and  the  maiden 
Knelt  at  her  father’s  side,  and  wailed  aloud  in  her  terror. 

Then  in  a swoon  she  sank,  and  lay  with  her  head  on  his  bosom. 

Through  the  long  night  she  lay  in  deep,  oblivious  slumber; 

And  when  she  awoke  from  the  trance,  she  beheld  a multitude  near  her. 

Faces  of  friends  she  beheld,  that  were  mournfully  gazing  upon  her, 

Pallid,  with  tearful  eyes,  and  looks  of  saddest  compassion. 

Still  the  blaze  of  the  burning  village  illumined  the  landscape, 

Reddened  the  sky  overhead,  and  gleamed  on  the  faces  around  her, 

And  like  the  day  of  doom  it  seemed  to  her  wavering  senses. 

Then  a familiar  voice  she  heard,  as  it  said  to  the  people,  — 

“ Let  us  bury  him  here  by  the  sea.  When  a happier  season 
Brings  us  again  to  our  homes  from  the  unknown  land  of  our  exile, 


166 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Then  shall  his  sacred  dust  be  piously  laid  in  the  churchyard.” 

Such  were  the  words  of  the  priest.  And  there  in  haste  by  the  sea-side, 
Having  the  glare  of  the  burning  village  for  funeral  torches, 

But  without  bell  or  book,  they  buried  the  farmer  of  Grand-Pre. 

And  as  the  voice  of  the  priest  repeated  the  service  of  sorrow, 

Lo  ! with  a mournful  sound,  like  the  voice  of  a vast  congregation, 
Solemnly  answered  the  sea,  and  mingled  its  roar  with  the  dirges. 

’T  was  the  returning  tide,  that  afar  from  the  waste  of  the  ocean, 

With  the  first  dawn  of  the  day,  came  heaving  and  hurrying  landward. 
Then  recommenced  once  more  the  stir  and  noise  of  embarking  ; 

And  with  the  ebb  of  the  tide  the  ships  sailed  out  of  the  harbor. 
Leaving  behind  them  the  dead  on  the  shore,  and  the  village  in  ruins. 


PART  THE  SECOND. 

I. 

Many  a weary  year  had  passed  since  the  burning  of  Grand  Pre, 

When  on  the  falling  tide  the  freighted  vessels  departed. 

Bearing  a nation,  with  all  its  household  gods,  into  exile, 

Exile  without  an  end,  and  without  an  example  in  story. 

Far  asunder,  on  separate  coasts,  the  Acadians  landed ; 

Scattered  were  they,  like  flakes  of  snow,  when  the  wind  from  the  northeast 
Strikes  aslant  through  the  fogs  that  darken  the  Banks  of  Newfoundland. 
Friendless,  homeless,  hopeless,  they  wandered  from  city  to  city, 

From  the  cold  lakes  of  the  North  to  sultry  Southern  savannas,  — 

From  the  bleak  shores  of  the  sea  to  the  lands  where  the  Father  of  Waters 
Seizes  the  hills  in  his  hands,  and  drags  them  down  to  the  ocean, 

Deep  in  their  sands  to  bury  the  scattered  bones  of  the  mammoth. 


Tint  '««¥ 

Of  THE 

rmr.:v:  c?  iiuaois 


EVANGELINE. 


* 


IIENR  Y WA BS  IVOR  TH  L ONGFELL  0 W. 


167 


Friends  they  sought  and  homes  ; and  many,  despairing,  heart-broken, 

Asked  of  the  earth  but  a grave,  and  no  longer  a friend  nor  a fireside. 
Written  their  history  stands  on  tablets  of  stone  in  the  churchyards. 

Loner  among  them  was  seen  a maiden  who  waited  and  wandered, 

Lowly  and  meek  in  spirit,  and  patiently  suffering  all  things. 

Fair  was  she  and  young : but,  alas  ! before  her  extended, 

Dreary  and  vast  and  silent,  the  desert  of  life,  with  its  pathway 
Marked  by  the  graves  of  those  who  had  sorrowed  and  suffered  before  her, 
Passions  long  extinguished,  and  hopes  long  dead  and  abandoned, 

As  the  emigrant’s  way  o’er  the  Western  desert  is  marked  by 
Camp-fires  long  consumed,  and  bones  that  bleach  in  the  sunshine. 

Something  there  was  in  her  life  incomplete,  imperfect,  unfinished  ; 

As  if  a morning  of  June,  with  all  its  music  and  sunshine, 

Suddenly  paused  in  the  sky,  and,  fading,  slowly  descended 
Into  the  east  again,  from  whence  it  late  had  arisen. 

Sometimes  she  lingered  in  towns,  till,  urged  by  the  fever  within  her, 

Urged  by  a restless  longing,  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  spirit, 

She  would  commence  again  her  endless  search  and  endeavor ; 

Sometimes  in  churchyards  strayed,  and  gazed  on  the  crosses  and  tombstones, 
Sat  by  some  nameless  grave,  and  thought  that  perhaps  in  its  bosom 
He  was  already  at  rest,  and  she  longed  to  slumber  beside  him. 

Sometimes  a rumor,  a hearsay,  an  inarticulate  whisper, 

Came  with  its  airy  hand  to  point  and  beckon  her  forward. 

Sometimes  she  spake  with  those  who  had  seen  her  beloved  and  known  him, 
But  it  was  long  ago,  in  some  far-off  place  or  forgotten. 

; Gabriel  Lajeunesse ! ” they  said ; “ O yes  ! we  have  seen  him. 

He  was  with  Basil  the  blacksmith,  and  both  have  gone  to  the  prairies  ; 
Coureurs-des-Bois  are  they,  and  famous  hunters  and  trappers.” 

‘ Gabriel  Lajeunesse  ! ” said  others  ; “ O yes  ! we  have  seen  him. 

He  is  a Voyageur  in  the  lowlands  of  Louisiana.” 

Then  would  they  say,  “ Dear  child ! why  dream  and  wait  for  him  longer  ? 
Are  there  not  other  youths  as  fair  as  Gabriel?  others 
Who  have  hearts  as  tender  and  true,  and  spirits  as  loyal  ? 

Here  is  Baptiste  Leblanc,  the  notary’s  son,  who  has  loved  thee 
Many  a tedious  year  ; come,  give  him  thy  hand  and  be  happy  ! 

Thou  art  too  fair  to  be  left  to  braid  St.  Catherine’s  tresses.” 

Then  would  Evangeline  answer,  serenely  but  sadly,  “ I cannot ! 

Whither  my  heart  has  gone,  there  follows  my  hand,  and  not  elsewhere. 

For  when  the  heart  goes  before,  like  a lamp,  and  illumines  the  pathway, 
Many  things  are  made  clear,  that  else  lie  hidden  in  darkness.” 

Thereupon  the  priest,  her  friend  and  father-confessor, 

Said,  with  a smile,  “ O daughter  ! thy  God  thus  speaketh  within  thee  ! 
Talk  not  of  wasted  affection,  affection  never  was  wasted ; 

If  it  enrich  not  the  heart  of  another,  its  waters,  returning 

Back  to  their  springs,  like  the  rain,  shall  fill  them  full  of  refreshment ; 

That  which  the  fountain  sends  forth  returns  again  to  the  fountain. 

Patience  ; accomplish  thy  labor ; accomplish  thy  work  of  affection  ! 

Sorrow  and  silence  are  strong,  and  patient  endurance  is  godlike. 

Therefore  accomplish  thy  labor  of  love,  till  the  heart  is  made  godlike, 
Purified,  strengthened,  perfected,  and  rendered  more  worthy  of  heaven ! ” 


168 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


C heered  by  the  good  man  s words,  Evangeline  labored  and  waited. 

Still  in  her  heart  she  heard  the  funeral  dirge  of  the  ocean, 

But  with  its  sound  there  was  mingled  a voice  that  whispered,  “Despair  not!” 
1 hus  did  that  poor  soul  wander  in  want  and  cheerless  discomfort, 

Bleeding,  barefooted,  over  the  shards  and  thorns  of  existence. 

Let  me  essay,  O Muse  ! to  follow  the  wanderer’s  footsteps  ; — 

Not  through  each  devious  path,  each  changeful  year  of  existence  ; 

But  as  a traveller  follows  a streamlet’s  course  through  the  valley  : 

Far  from  its  margin  at  times,  and  seeing  the  gleam  of  its  water 
Here  and  there,  in  some  open  space,  and  at  intervals  only  ; 

Then  drawing  nearer  its  banks,  through  sylvan  glooms  that  conceal  it, 

1 hough  he  behold  it  not,  he  can  hear  its  continuous  murmur; 

Happy,  at  length,  if  he  find  the  spot  where  it  reaches  an  outlet. 

11. 

It  was  the  month  of  May.  Far  down  the  Beautiful  River, 

Past  the  Ohio  shore  and  past  the  mouth  of  the  Wabash, 


Into  the  golden  stream  of  the  broad  and  swift  Mississippi, 
t loated  a cumbrous  boat,  that  was  rowed  by  Acadian  boatmen. 

It  was  a band  of  exiles : a raft,  as  it  were,  from  the  shipwrecked 
Nation,  scattered  along  the  coast,  now  floating  together, 

Bound  by  the  bonds  of  a common  belief  and  a common  misfortune  ; 
Men  and  women  and  children,  who,  guided  by  hope  or  by  hearsay, 
Sought  for  their  kith  and  their  kin  among  the  few-acred  farmers 
On  the  Acadian  coast,  and  the  prairies  of  fair  Opelousas. 

W ith  them  Evangeline  went,  and  her  guide,  the  Father  Felician. 
Onward  o er  sunken  sands,  through  a wilderness  sombre  with  forests, 
Day  after  day  they  glided  adown  the  turbulent  river ; 

Night  after  night,  by  their  blazing  fires,  encamped  on  its  borders. 

Now  through  rushing  chutes,  among  green  islands,  where  plumelike 
Cotton-trees  nodded  their  shadowy  crests,  they  swept  with  the  current, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


169 


Then  emerged  into  broad  lagoons,  where  silvery  sand-bars 

Lay  m the  stream,  and  along  the  wimpling  waves  of  their  margin, 

Shining  with  snow-white  plumes,  large  flocks  of  pelicans  waded. 

Level  the  landscape  grew,  and  along  the  shores  of  the  river, 

Shaded  by  china-trees,  in  the  midst  of  luxuriant  gardens, 

Stood  the  houses  of  planters,  with  negro-cabins  and  dove-cots. 

They  were  approaching  the  region  where  reigns  perpetual  summer, 

Where  through  the  Golden  Coast,  and  groves  of  orange  and  citron, 

Sweeps  with  majestic  curve  the  river  away  to  the  eastward. 

They,  too,  swerved  from  their  course  ; and,  entering  the  Bayou  of  Plaquemine, 
Soon  were  lost  in  a maze  of  sluggish  and  devious  waters, 

Which,  like  a network  of  steel,  extended  in  every  direction. 

Over  their  heads  the  towering  and  tenebrous  boughs  of  the  cypress 

Met  in  a dusky  arch,  and  trailing  mosses  in  mid-air 

Waved  like  banners  that  hang  on  the  walls  of  ancient  cathedrals. 

Deathlike  the  silence  seemed,  and  unbroken,  save  by  the  herons 
Home  to  their  roosts  in  the  cedar-trees  returning  at  sunset, 

Or  by  the  owl,  as  he  greeted  the  moon  with  demoniac  laughter. 

Lovely  the  moonlight  was  as  it  glanced  and  gleamed  on  the  water, 

Gleamed  on  the  columns  of  cypress  and  cedar  sustaining  the  arches, 

Down  through  whose  broken  vaults  it  fell  as  through  chinks  in  a ruin. 
Dreamlike,  and  indistinct,  and  strange  were  all  things  around  them ; 

And  o'er  their  spirits  there  came  a feeling  of  wonder  and  sadness,  — 

Strange  forebodings  of  ill,  unseen  and  that  cannot  be  compassed. 

As,  at  the  tramp  of  a horse’s  hoof  on  the  turf  of  the  prairies, 

Far  in  advance  are  closed  the  leaves  of  the  shrinking  mimosa, 

So,  at  the  hoof-beats  of  fate,  with  sad  forebodings  of  evil, 

Shrinks  and  closes  the  heart,  ere  the  stroke  of  doom  has  attained  it. 

But  Evangeline’s  heart  was  sustained  by  a vision,  that  faintly 
Floated  before  her  eyes,  and  beckoned  her  on  through  the  moonlight. 

It  was  the  thought  of  her  brain  that  assumed  the  shape  of  a phantom. 
Through  those  shadowy  aisles  had  Gabriel  wandered  before  her, 

And  every  stroke  of  the  oar  now  brought  him  nearer  and  nearer. 

Then  jn  his  place,  at  the  prow  of  the  boat,  rose  one  of  the  oarsmen, 

And,  as  a signal  sound,  if  others  like  them  peradventure 

Sailed  on  those  gloomy  and  midnight  streams,  blew  a blast  on  his  bugle. 

Wild  through  the  dark  colonnades  and  corridors  leafy  the  blast  rang, 

Breaking  the  seal  of  silence,  and  giving  tongues  to  the  forest. 

Soundless  above  them  the  banners  of  moss  just  stirred  to  the  music. 
Multitudinous  echoes  awoke  and  died  in  the  distance, 

Over  the  watery  floor,  and  beneath  the  reverberant  branches ; 

But  not  a voice  replied ; no  answer  came  from  the  darkness ; 

And,  when  the  echoes  had  ceased,  like  a sense  of  pain  was  the  silence. 

Then  Evangeline  slept  ; but  the  boatmen  roAved  through  the  midnight, 

Silent  at  times,  then  singing  familiar  Canadian  boat-songs. 

Such  as  they  sang  of  old  on  their  own  Acadian  rivers, 

While  through  the  night  Avere  heard  the  mysterious  sounds  of  the  desert. 

Far  off, — indistinct,  — as  of  Avave  or  wind  in  the  forest, 

Mixed  Avith  the  whoop  of  the  crane  and  the  roar  of  the  grim  alligator. 

22 


0 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Thus  ere  another  noon  they  emerged  from  the  shades;  and  before  them 
Lay,  in  the  golden  sun,  the  lakes  of  the  Atchafalaya. 

Water-lilies  in  myriads  rocked  on  the  slight  undulations 
Made  by  the  passing  oars,  and,  resplendent  in  beauty,  the  lotus 
Lifted  her  golden  crown  above  the  heads  of  the  boatmen. 

Faint  was  the  air  with  the  odorous  breath  of  magnolia  blossoms, 

And  with  the  heat  of  noon;  and  numberless  sylvan  islands, 

Fragrant  and  thickly  embowered  with  blossoming  hedges  of  roses, 

Near  to  whose  shores  they  glided  along,  invited  to  slumber. 

Soon  by  the  fairest  of  these  their  weary  oars  were  suspended. 

Under  the  boughs  of  Wachita  willows,  that  grew  by  the  margin, 

Safely  their  boat  was  moored ; and  scattered  about  on  the  greensward, 
Tired  with  their  midnight  toil,  the  weary  travellers  slumbered. 

Over  them  vast  and  high  extended  the  cope 


of  a cedar. 

Swinging  from  its  great  arms,  the  trumpet- 
flower  and  the  grapevine 

Hung  their  ladder  of  ropes  aloft  like  the  lad- 
der of  Jacob, 

On  whose  pendulous  stairs  the  angels  ascend- 
ing, descending, 

Were  the  swift  humming-birds  that  flitted 
from  blossom  to  blossom. 

Such  was  the  vision  Evangeline  saw  as  she 
slumbered  beneath  it. 

Filled  was  her  heart  with  love,  and  the  dawn 
of  an  opening  heaven 

Lighted  her  soul  in  sleep  with  the  glory  of 
regions  celestial. 


IIENR  Y IV A DS  IVOR  TH  L ONGFELL  0 W 


171 


Nearer,  and  ever  nearer,  among  the  numberless  islands, 

Darted  a light,  swift  boat,  that  sped  away  o’er  the  water, 

Urged  on  its  course  by  the  sinewy  arms  of  hunters  and  trappers. 
Northward  its  prow  was  turned,  to  the  land  of  the  bison  and  beaver. 
At  the  helm  sat  a youth,  with  countenance  thoughtful  and  careworn. 
Dark  and  neglected  locks  overshadowed  his  brow,  and  a sadness 
Somewhat  beyond  his  years  on  his  face  was  legibly  written. 

Gabriel  was  it,  who,  weary  with  waiting,  unhappy  and  restless, 

Sought  in  the  Western  wilds  oblivion  of  self  and  of  sorrow. 

Swiftly  they  glided  along,  close  under  the  lee  of  the  island, 

But  by  the  opposite  bank,  and  behind  a screen  of  palmettos, 

So  that  they  saw  not  the  boat,  where  it  lay  concealed  in  the  willows, 
All  undisturbed  by  the  dash  of  their  oars,  and  unseen,  were  the  sleepers, 
Angel  of  God  was  there  none  to  awaken  the  slumbering  maiden. 

Swiftly  they  glided  away,  like  the  shade  of  a cloud  on  the  prairie. 

After  the  sound  of  their  oars  on  the  tholes  had  died  in  the  distance, 

As  from  a magic  trance  the  sleepers  awoke,  and  the  maiden 
Said  with  a sigh  to  the  friendly  priest,  “ O Father  Felician  ! 

Something  says  in  my  heart  that  near  me  Gabriel  wanders. 

Is  it  a foolish  dream,  an  idle  and  vague  superstition  ? 

Or  has  an  angel  passed,  and  revealed  the  truth  to  my  spirit  ? ” 

Then,  with  a blush,  she  added,  “ Alas  for  my  credulous  fancy  ! 

Unto  ears  like  thine  such  words  as  these  have  no  meaning.” 

But  made  answer  the  reverend  man,  and  he  smiled  as  he  answered,  — 

“ Daughter,  thy  words  are  not  idle  ; nor  are  they  to  me  without  meaning. 
Feeling  is  deep  and  still  ; and  the  word  that  floats  on  the  surface 
Is  as  the  tossing  buoy,  that  betrays  where  the  anchor  is  hidden. 
Therefore  trust  to  thy  heart,  and  to  what  the  world  calls  illusions. 
Gabriel  truly  is  near  thee  ; for  not  far  away  to  the  southward, 

On  the  banks  of  the  Teclie,  are  the  towns  of  St.  Maur  and  St.  Martin. 
There  the  long-wandering  bride  shall  be  given  again  to  her  bridegroom. 
There  the  long-absent  pastor  regain  his  flock  and  his  sheepfold. 
Beautiful  is  the  land,  with  its  prairies  and  forests  of  fruit-trees ; 

Under  the  feet  a garden  of  flowers,  and  the  bluest  of  heavens 
Bending  above,  and  resting  its  dome  on  the  walls  of  the  forest. 

They  who  dwell  there  have  named  it  the  Eden  of  Louisiana  ! ” 

With  these  words  of  cheer  they  arose  and  continued  their  journey. 
Softly  the  evening  came.  The  sun  from  the  western  horizon 
Like  a magician  extended  his  golden  wand  o’er  the  landscape ; 
Twinkling  vapors  arose ; and  sky  and  water  and  forest 
Seemed  all  on  fire  at  the  touch,  and  melted  and  mingled  together. 
Hanging  between  two  skies,  a cloud  with  edges  of  silver, 

Floated  the  boat,  with  its  dripping  oars,  on  the  motionless  water. 

Filled  was  Evangeline’s  heart  with  inexpressible  sweetness. 

Touched  by  the  magic  spell,  the  sacred  fountains  of  feeling 
Glowed  Avith  the  light  of  love,  as  the  skies  and  waters  around  her. 
Then  from  a neighboring  thicket  the  mocking-bird,  Avildest  of  singers. 
Swinging  aloft  on  a willoAV  spray  that  hung  o’er  the  water, 

Shook  from  his  little  throat  such  floods  of  delirious  music, 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


That  the  whole  air  and  the  woods  and  the  waves  seemed  silent  to  listen. 
Plaintive  at  first  were  the  tones  and  sad  : then  soaring  to  madness 
Seemed  they  to  follow  or  guide  the  revel  of  frenzied  Bacchantes. 

Single  notes  were  then  heard,  in  sorrowful,  low  lamentation  ; 

Till,  having  gathered  them  all,  he  Hung  them  abroad  in  derision, 

As  when,  after  a storm,  a gust  of  wind  through  the  tree-tops 
Shakes  down  the  rattling  rain  in  a crystal  shower  on  the  branches. 

With  such  a prelude  as  this,  and  hearts  that  throbbed  with  emotion. 

Slowly  they  entered  the  Teche,  where  it  flows  through  the  green  Opelousas, 
And,  through  the  amber  air,  above  the  crest  of  the  woodland, 

Saw  the  column  of  smoke  that  arose  from  a neighboring  dwelling ; — 

Sounds  of  a horn  they  heard,  and  the  distant  lowing  of  cattle. 

III. 

Near  to  the  bank  of  the  river,  o’ershadowed  by  oaks,  from  whose  branches 
Garlands  of  Spanish  moss  and  of  mystic  mistletoe  flaunted, 

Such  as  the  Druids  cut  down  with  golden  hatchets  at  Yule-tide, 

Stood,  secluded  and  still,  the  house  of  the  herdsman.  A garden 
Girded  it  round  about  with  a belt  of  luxuriant  blossoms, 

Filling  the  air  with  fragrance.  The  house  itself  was  of  timbers 
Hewn  from  the  cypress-tree,  and  carefully  fitted  together. 

Large  and  low  was  the  roof ; and  on  slender  columns  supported, 
Rose-wreathed,  vine-encircled,  a broad  and  spacious  veranda, 

Haunt  of  the  humming-bird  and  the  bee,  extended  around  it. 

At  each  end  of  the  house,  amid  the  flowers  of  the  garden, 

Stationed  the  dove-cots  were,  as  love’s  perpetual  symbol, 

Scenes  of  endless  wooing,  and  endless  contentions  of  rivals. 

Silence  reigned  o’er  the  place.  The  line  of  shadow  and  sunshine 
Ran  near  the  tops  of  the  trees ; but  the  house  itself  was  in  shadow, 

And  from  its  chimney-top,  ascending  and  slowly  expanding 
Into  the  evening  air,  a thin  blue  column  of  smoke  rose. 

In  the  rear  of  the  house,  from  the  garden  gate,  ran  a pathway 
Through  the  great  groves  of  oak  to  the  skirts  of  the  limitless  prairie, 

Into  whose  sea  of  flowers  the  sun  was  slowly  descending. 

Full  in  his  track  of  light,  like  ships  with  shadowy  canvas 
Hanging  loose  from  their  spars  in  a motionless  calm  in  the  tropics, 

Stood  a cluster  of  trees,  with  tangled  cordage  of  grapevines. 

Just  where  the  woodlands  met  the  flowery  surf  of  the  prairie, 

Mounted  upon  his  horse,  with  Spanish  saddle  and  stirrups, 

Sat  a herdsman,  arrayed  in  gaiters  and  doublet  of  deerskin. 

Broad  and  brown  was  the  face  that  from  under  the  Spanish  sombrero 
Gazed  on  the  peaceful  scene,  with  the  lordly  look  of  its  master. 

Round  about  him  were  numberless  herds  of  kine,  that  were  grazing 
Quietly  in  the  meadows,  and  breathing  the  vapory  freshness 
That  uprose  from  the  river,  and  spread  itself  over  the  landscape. 

Slowly  lifting  the  horn  that  hung  at  his  side,  and  expanding 
Fully  his  broad,  deep  chest,  he  blew  a blast,  that  resounded 
Wildly  and  sweet  and  far,  through  the  still  damp  air  of  the  evening. 
Suddenly  out  of  the  grass  the  long  white  horns  of  the  cattle 


HENR  Y WADS  WOR  77/  L ON G FELL  0 W. 


Rose  like  flakes  of  foam  on  the  adverse  currents  of  ocean. 

Silent  a moment  they  gazed,  then  bellowing  rushed  o’er  the  prairie, 

And  the  whole  mass  became  a cloud,  a shade  in  the  distance. 

Then,  as  the  herdsman  turned  to  the  house,  through  the  gate  of  the  garden 
Saw  he  the  forms  of  the  priest  and  the  maiden  advancing  to  meet  him. 
Suddenly  down  from  his  horse  he  sprang  in  amazement,  and  forward 
Rushed  with  extended  arms  and  exclamations  of  wonder  ; 

When  they  beheld  his  face,  they  recognized  Basil  the  Blacksmith. 

Hearty  his  welcome  was,  as  he  led  his  guests  to  the  garden. 

There  in  an  arbor  of  roses  with  endless  question  and  answer 

Gave  they  vent  to  their  hearts,  and  renewed  their  friendly  embraces, 

Laughing  and  weeping  by  turns,  or  sitting  silent  and  thoughtful. 

Thoughtful,  for  Gabriel  came  not ; and  now  dark  doubts  and  misgivings 
Stole  o’er  the  maiden’s  heart ; and  Basil,  somewhat  embarrassed, 

Broke  the  silence  and  said,  “ If  you  came  by  the  Atchafalaya, 

How  have  you  nowhere  encountered  my  Gabriel’s  boat  on  the  bayous  ? ” 
Over  Evangeline’s  face  at  the  words  of  Basil  a shade  passed. 


Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  said,  with  a tremulous  accent, 

“ Gone  ? is  Gabriel  gone  ? ” and,  concealing  her  face  on  his  shoulder, 

All  her  o’erburdened  heart  gave  way,  and  she  wept  and  lamented. 
Then  the  good  Basil  said,  — and  his  voice  grew  blithe  as  he  said  it,  — 
“ Be  of  good  cheer,  my  child ; it  is  only  to-day  he  departed. 

Foolish  boy ! he  has  left  me  alone  with  my  herds  and  my  horses. 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Moody  and  restless  grown,  and  tried  and  troubled,  his  spirit 
Could  no  longer  endure  the  calm  of  this  quiet  existence. 

Thinking  ever  of  thee,  uncertain  and  sorrowful  ever, 

Ever  silent,  or  speaking  only  of  thee  and  his  troubles, 

He  at  length  had  become  so  tedious  to  men  and  to  maidens, 

Tedious  even  to  me,  that  at  length  I bethought  me  and  sent  him 
Unto  the  town  of  Adayes  to  trade  for  mules  with  the  Spaniards. 

Thence  he  will  follow  the  Indian  trails  to  the  Ozark  Mountains, 

Hunting  for  furs  in  the  forests,  on  rivers  trapping  the  beaver. 

Therefore  be  of  good  cheer  ; wTe  will  follow  the  fugitive  lover ; 

He  is  not  far  on  his  way,  and  the  Fates  and  the  streams  are  against  him. 

Up  and  away  to-morrow,  and  through  the  red  dew  of  the  morning 
We  will  follow  him  fast,  and  bring  him  back  to  his  prison.” 

Then  glad  voices  were  heard,  and  up  from  the  banks  of  the  river, 

Borne  aloft  on  his  comrades’  arms,  came  Michael  the  fiddler. 

Long  under  Basil’s  roof  had  he  lived  like  a god  on  Olympus, 

Having  no  other  care  than  dispensing  music  to  mortals. 

Far  renowned  was  he  for  his  silver  locks  and  his  fiddle. 

Long  live  Michael,”  they  cried,  “ our  brave  Acadian  minstrel ! ” 

As  they  bore  him  aloft  in  triumphal  procession ; and  straightway 
Father  Felician  advanced  with  Evangeline,  greeting  the  old  man 
Kindly  and  oft,  and  recalling  the  past,  while  Basil,  enraptured, 

Hailed  with  hilarious  joy  his  old  companions  and  gossips, 

Laughing  loud  and  long,  and  embracing  mothers  and  daughters. 

Much  they  marvelled  to  see  the  wealth  of  the  cidevant  blacksmith, 

All  his  domains  and  his  herds  and  his  patriarchal  demeanor ; 

Much  they  marvelled  to  hear  his  tales  of  the  soil  and  the  climate, 

And  of  the  prairies,  whose  numberless  herds  were  his  who  would  take  them ; 
Each  one  thought  in  his  heart,  that  he,  too,  would  go  and  do  likewise. 

Thus  they  ascended  the  steps,  and  crossed  the  breezy  veranda, 

Entered  the  hall  of  the  house,  where  already  the  supper  of  Basil 
W aited  his  late  return  ; and  they  rested  and  feasted  together. 

Over  the  joyous  feast  the  sudden  darkness  descended. 

All  was  silent  without,  and,  illuming  the  landscape  with  silver, 

Fair  rose  the  dewy  moon  and  the  myriad  stars ; but  within  doors, 

Brighter  than  these,  shone  the  faces  of  friends  in  the  glimmering  lamplight. 
Then  from  his  station  aloft,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  the  herdsman 
Poured  forth  his  heart  and  his  wine  together  in  endless  profusion. 

Lighting  his  pipe,  that  was  filled  with  sweet  Natchitoches  tobacco, 

Thus  he.  spake  to  his  guests,  who  listened,  and  smiled  as  they  listened:  — 
Welcome  once  more,  my  friends,  who  long  have  been  friendless  and  homeless. 
Welcome  once  more  to  a home,  that  is  better  perchance  than  the  old  one! 
Here  no  hungry  winter  congeals  our  blood  like  the  rivers  ; 

Here  no  stony  ground  provokes  the  wrath  of  the  farmer. 

Smoothly  the  ploughshare  runs  through  the  soil,  as  a keel  through  the  water. 
All  the  year  round  the  orange-groves  are  in  blossom  ; and  grass  grows 
More  in  a single  night  than  a whole  Canadian  summer. 

Here,  too,  numberless  herds  run  wild  and  unclaimed  in  the  prairies  ; 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


Here,  too,  lands  may  be  had  for  the  ashing,  and  forests  of  timber 
With  a few  blows  of  the  axe  are  hewn  and  framed  into  houses. 

After  your  houses  are  built,  and  your  fields  are  yellow  with  harvests, 

No  King  George  of  England  shall  drive  you  away  from  your  homesteads, 
Burning  your  dwellings  and  barns,  and  stealing  your  farms  and  your  cattle." 
Speaking  these  words,  he  blew  a wrathful  cloud  from  his  nostrils, 

While  his  huge,  brown  hand  came  thundering  down  on  the  table, 

So  that  the  guests  all  started ; and  Father  Felician,  astounded, 

Suddenly  paused,  with  a pinch  of  snuff  half-way  to  his  nostrils. 

But  the  brave  Basil  resumed,  and  his  words  were  milder  and  gayer : — 

“ Only  beware  of  the  fever,  my  friends,  beware  of  the  fever  ! 

For  it  is  not  like  that  of  our  cold  Acadian  climate, 

Cured  by  wearing  a spider  hung  round  one's  neck  in  a nutshell!” 


Then  there  were  voices  heard  at  the  door,  and  footsteps  approaching 
Sounded  upon  the  stairs  and  the  floor  of  the  breezy  veranda. 

It  was  the  neighboring  Creoles  and  small  Acadian  planters, 

Who  had  been  summoned  all  to  the  house  of  Basil  the  Herdsman. 

Merry  the  meeting  was  of  ancient  comrades  and  neighbors: 

Friend  clasped  friend  in  his  arms ; and  they  who  before  were  as  strangers, 
Meeting  in  exile,  became  straightway  as  friends  to  each  other, 

Drawn  by  the  gentle  bond  of  a common  country  together. 

But  in  the  neighboring  hall  a strain  of  music,  proceeding 
From  the  accordant  strings  of  Michael’s  melodious  fiddle, 

Broke  up  all  further  speech  Away,  like  children  delighted, 

All  things  forgotten  beside,  they  gave  themselves  to  the  maddening 
Whirl  of  the  giddy  dance,  as  it  swept  and  swayed  to  the  music, 
Dreamlike,  with  beaming  eyes  and  the  rush  of  fluttering  garments. 


176 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Meanwhile,  apart,  at  the  head  of  the  hall,  the  priest  and  the  herdsman 
Sat,  conversing  together  of  past  and  present  and  future ; 

While  Evangeline  stood  like  one  entranced,  for  within  her 
Olden  memories  rose,  and  loud  in  the  midst  of  the  music 
Heard  she  the  sound  of  the  sea,  and  an  irrepressible  sadness 
Came  o'er  her  heart,  and  unseen  she  stole  forth  into  the  garden. 

Beautiful  was  the  night.  Behind  the  black  wall  of  the  forest, 

Tipping  its  summit  with  silver,  arose  the  moon.  On  the  river 

Fell  here  and  there  through  the  branches  a tremulous  gleam  of  the  moonlight, 

Like  the  sweet  thoughts  of  love  on  a darkened  and  devious  spirit. 

Nearer  and  round  about  her,  the  manifold  flowers  of  the  garden 
Poured  out  their  souls  in  odors,  that  were  their  prayers  and  confessions 
Unto  the  night,  as  it  went  its  way,  like  a silent  Carthusian. 

Fuller  of  fragrance  than  they,  and  as  heavy  with  shadows  and  night-dews, 
Hung  the  heart  of  the  maiden.  The  calm  and  the  magical  moonlight 
Seemed  to  inundate  her  soul  with  indefinable  longings, 

As,  through  the  garden-gate,  and  beneath  the  shade  of  the  oak-trees, 

Passed  she  along  the  path  to  the  edge  of  the  measureless  prairie. 

Silent  it  lay,  with  a silvery  haze  upon  it,  and  fire-flies 
Gleamed  and  floated  away  in  mingled  and  infinite  numbers. 

Over  her  head  the  stars,  the  thoughts  of  God  in  the  heavens, 

Shone  on  the  eyes  of  man,  who  had  ceased  to  marvel  and  worship, 

Save  when  a blazing  comet  was  seen  on  the  walls  of  that  temple, 

As  if  a hand  had  appeared  and  written  upon  them,  “ Upharsin.” 

And  the  soul  of  the  maiden,  between  the  stars  and  the  fire-flies, 

Wandered  alone,  and  she  cried,  “ O Gabriel!  O my  beloved! 

Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  I cannot  behold  thee? 

Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  thy  voice  does  not  reach  me? 

Ah  ! how  often  thy  feet  have  trod  this  path  to  the  prairie ! 

Ah  ! how  often  thine  eyes  have  looked  on  the  woodlands  around  me  ! 

Ah ! how  often  beneath  this  oak,  returning  from  labor, 

Thou  hast  lain  down  to  rest,  and  to  dream  of  me  in  thy  slumbers ! 

When  shall  these  eyes  behold,  these  arms  be  folded  about  thee?” 

Loud  and  sudden  and  near  the  notes  of  a whippoorwill  sounded 
Like  a flute  in  the  woods  ; and  anon,  through  the  neighboring  thickets, 
Farther  and  farther  away  it  floated  and  dropped  into  silence. 

“ Patience ! ” whispered  the  oaks  from  oracular  caverns  of  darkness : 

And,  from  the  moonlit  meadow,  a sigh  responded,  “To-morrow!” 

Bright  rose  the  sun  next  day ; and  all  the  flowers  of  the  garden 
Bathed  his  shining  feet  with  their  tears,  and  anointed  his  tresses 
With  the  delicious  balm  that  they  bore  in  their  vases  of  crystal. 

“ Farewell ! ” said  the  priest,  as  he  stood  at  the  shadowy  threshold ; 

“ See  that  you  bring  us  the  Prodigal  Son  from  his  fasting  and  famine, 

And,  too,  the  Foolish  Virgin,  who  slept  when  the  bridegroom  was  coming.” 

“ Farewell ! ” answered  the  maiden,  and,  smiling,  with  Basil  descended 
Down  to  the  river’s  brink,  where  the  boatmen  already  were  waiting. 

Thus  beginning  their  journey  with  morning,  and  sunshine,  and  gladness, 
Swiftly  they  followed  the  flight  of  him  who  was  speeding  before  them, 

Blown  by  the  blast  of  fate  like  a dead  leaf  over  the  desert. 


HENR  Y WA  DS  IVOR  TH  L ONGFELL  0 W. 


177 


Not  that  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  yet  the  day  that  succeeded, 

Found  they  the  trace  of  his  course,  in  lake  or  forest  or  river, 

Nor,  after  many  days,  had  they  found  him ; but  vague  and  uncertain 
Rumors  alone  were  their  guides  through  a wild  and  desolate  country ; 
Till,  at  the  little  inn  of  the  Spanish  town  of  Adayes, 

Weary  and  worn,  they  alighted,  and  learned  from  the  garrulous  landlord, 
That  on  the  day  before,  with  horses  and  guides  and  companions, 

Gabriel  left  the  village,  and  took  the  road  of  the  prairies. 

IV. 

Far  in  the  West  there  lies  a desert  land,  where  the  mountains 
Lift,  through  perpetual  snows,  their  lofty  and  luminous  summits. 

Down  from  their  jagged,  deep  ravines,  where  the  gorge,  like  a gateway, 
Opens  a passage  rude  to  the  wheels  of  the  emigrant’s  wagon, 

Westward  the  Oregon  flows  and  the  Walleway  and  Owyhee. 

Eastward,  with  devious  course,  among  the  Wind-river  Mountains, 
Through  the  Sweet-water  Valley  precipitate  leaps  the  Nebraska; 


And  to  the  south,  from  Fontaine-qui-bout  and  the  Spanish  sierras, 
Fretted  with  sands  and  rocks,  and  swept  by  the  wind  of  the  desert, 
Numberless  torrents,  with  ceaseless  sound,  descend  to  the  ocean, 

Like  the  great  chords  of  a harp,  in  loud  and  solemn  vibrations. 
Spreading  between  these  streams  are  the  wondrous,  beautiful  prairies, 

23 


178 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Billowy  bays  of  grass  ever  rolling  in  shadow  and  sunshine, 

Bright  with  luxuriant  clusters  of  roses  and  purple  amorphas. 

Over  them  wandered  the  buffalo  herds,  and  the  elk  and  the  roebuck  ; 

Over  them  wandered  the  wolves,  and  herds  of  riderless  horses ; 

Fires  that  blast  and  blight,  and  winds  that  are  weary  with  travel  ; 

Over  them  wander  the  scattered  tribes  of  Ishmael’s  children, 

Staining  the  desert  with  blood  ; and  above  their  terrible  war-trails 
Circles  and  sails  aloft,  on  pinions  majestic,  the  vulture, 

Like  the  implacable  soul  of  a chieftain  slaughtered  in  battle, 

By  invisible  stairs  ascending  and  scaling  the  heavens. 

Mere  and  there  rise  smokes  from  the  camps  of  these  savage  marauders  ; 

Here  and  there  rise  groves  from  the  margins  of  swift-running  rivers  ; 

And  the  grim,  taciturn  bear,  the  anchorite  monk  of  the  desert, 

Climbs  down  their  dark  ravines  to  dig  for  roots  by  the  brook-side, 

And  over  all  is  the  sky,  the  clear  and  crystalline  heaven, 

Like  the  protecting  hand  of  God  inverted  above  them. 

Into  this  wonderful  land,  at  the  base  of  the  Ozark  Mountains, 

Gabriel  far  had  entered,  with  hunters  and  trappers  behind  him. 

Day  after  day,  with  their  Indian  guides,  the  maiden  and  Basil 
Followed  his  flying  steps,  and  thought  each  day  to  o’ertake  him. 

Sometimes  they  saw,  or  thought  they  saw,  the  smoke  of  his  camp-fire 
Rise  in  the  morning  air  from  the  distant  plain ; but  at  nightfall, 

When  they  had  reached  the  place,  they  found  only  embers  and  ashes. 

And,  though  their  hearts  were  sad  at  times  and  their  bodies  were  weary, 

Hope  still  guided  them  on,  as  the  magic  Fata  Morgana 

Showed  them  her  lakes  of  light,  that  retreated  and  vanished  before  them. 

Once,  as  they  sat  by  their  evening  fire,  there  silently  entered 
Into  their  little  camp  an  Indian  woman,  whose  features 
Wore  deep  traces  of  sorrow,  and  patience  as  great  as  her  sorrow. 

She  was  a Shawnee  woman  returning  home  to  her  people, 

From  the  far-off  hunting-grounds  of  the  cruel  Camanches, 

Where  her  Canadian  husband,  a Coureur-des-Bois,  had  been  murdered. 

Touched  were  their  hearts  at  her  story,  and  warmest  and  friendliest  welcome 
Gave  they,  with  words  of  cheer,  and  she  sat  and  feasted  among  them 
On  the  buffalo-meat  and  the  venison  cooked  on  the  embers. 

But  when  their  meal  was  done,  and  Basil  and  all  his  companions, 

Worn  with  the  long  day’s  march  and  the  chase  of  the  deer  and  the  bison, 
Stretched  themselves  on  the  ground,  and  slept  where  the  quivering  fire-light 
Flashed  on  their  swarthy  cheeks,  and  their  forms  wrapped  up  in  their  blankets. 
Then  at  the  door  of  Evangeline’s  tent  she  sat  and  repeated 
Slowly,  with  soft,  low  voice,  and  the  charm  of  her  Indian  accent, 

All  the  tale  of  her  love,  with  its  pleasures,  and  pains,  and  reverses. 

Much  Evangeline  wept  at  the  tale,  and  to  know  that  another 
Hapless  heart  like  her  own  had  loved  and  had  been  disappointed. 

Moved  to  the  depths  of  her  soul  by  pity  and  woman’s  compassion, 

Yet  in  her  sorrow  pleased  that  one  who  had  suffered  was  near  her, 

She  in  turn  related  her  love  and  all  its  disasters. 

Mute  with  wonder  the  Shawnee  sat,  and  when  she  had  ended 


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Still  was  mute ; but  at  length,  as  if  a mysterious  horror 

Passed  through  her  brain,  she  spake,  and  repeated  the  tale  of  the  Mowis : 

Mowis,  the  bridegroom  of  snow,  who  won  and  wedded  a maiden, 

But,  when  the  morning  came,  arose  and  passed  from  the  wigwam, 

Fading  and  melting  away  and  dissolving  into  the  sunshine, 

Till  she  beheld  him  no  more,  though  she  followed  far  into  the  forest. 

Then,  in  those  sweet,  low  tones,  that  seemed  like  a weird  incantation, 

Told  she  the  tale  of  the  fair  Lilinau,  who  was  wooed  by  a phantom, 

That  through  the  pines  o'er  her  father’s  lodge,  in  the  hush  of  the  twilight. 
Breathed  like  the  evening  wind,  and  whispered  love  to  the  maiden, 

'Fill  she  followed  his  green  and  waving  plume  through  the  forest, 

And  nevermore  returned,  nor  was  seen  again  by  her  people. 


Silent  with  wonder  and  strange  surprise,  Evangeline  listened 
To  the  soft  flow  of  her  magical  words,  till  the  region  around  her 
Seemed  like  enchanted  ground,  and  her  swarthy  guest  the  enchantress. 
Slowly  over  the  tops  of  the  Ozark  Mountains  the  moon  rose, 

Lighting  the  little  tent,  and  with  a mysterious  splendor 
Touching  the  sombre  leaves,  and  embracing  and  filling  the  woodland. 
With  a delicious  sound  the  brook  rushed  by,  and  the  branches 
Swayed  and  sighed  overhead  in  scarcely  audible  whispers. 


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THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Filled  with  the  thoughts  of  love  was  Evangeline’s  heart,  but  a secret, 
Subtile  sense  crept  in  of  pain  and  indefinite  terror, 

As  the  cold,  poisonous  snake  creeps  into  the  nest  of  the  swallow. 

It  was  no  earthly  fear.  A breath  from  the  region  of  spirits 
Seemed  to  float  in  the  air  of  night ; and  she  felt  for  a moment 
That,  like  the  Indian  maid,  she,  too,  was  pursuing  a phantom. 

With  this  thought  she  slept,  and  the  fear  and  the  phantom  had  vanished. 

Early  upon  the  morrow  the  march  was  resumed ; and  the  Shawnee 
Said,  as  they  journeyed  along,  “ On  the  western  slope  of  these  mountains 
Dwells  in  his  little  village  the  Black  Robe  chief  of  the  Mission. 

Much  he  teaches  the  people,  and  tells  them  of  Mary  and  Jesus. 

Loud  laugh  their  hearts  with  joy,  and  weep  with  pain,  as  they  hear  him.” 
Then,  with  a sudden  and  secret  emotion,  Evangeline  answered, 

“ Let  us  go  to  the  Mission,  for  there  good  tidings  await  us ! ” 

Thither  they  turned  their  steeds  ; and  behind  a spur  of  the  mountains, 

Just  as  the  sun  went  down,  they  heard  a murmur  of  voices, 

And  in  a meadow  green  and  broad,  by  the  bank  of  a river, 

Saw  the  tents  of  the  Christians,  the  tents  of  the  Jesuit  Mission. 

Under  a towering  oak,  that  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  village, 

Knelt  the  Black  Robe  chief  with  his  children.  A crucifix  fastened 
High  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  overshadowed  by  grapevines, 

Looked  with  its  agonized  face  on  the  multitude  kneeling  beneath  it. 

This  was  their  rural  chapel.  Aloft,  through  the  intricate  arches 
Of  its  aerial  roof,  arose  the  chant  of  their  vespers, 

Mingling  its  notes  with  the  soft  susurrus  and  sighs  of  the  branches. 

Silent,  with  heads  uncovered,  the  travellers,  nearer  approaching, 

Knelt  on  the  swarded  floor,  and  joined  in  the  evening  devotions. 

But  when  the  service  was  done,  and  the  benediction  had  fallen 
Forth  from  the  hands  of  the  priest,  like  seed  from  the  hands  of  the  sower, 
Slowly  the  reverend  man  advanced  to  the  strangers,  and  bade  them 
Welcome  ; and  when  they  replied,  he  smiled  with  benignant  expression, 
Hearing  the  homelike  sounds  of  his  mother-tongue  in  the  forest, 

And,  with  words  of  kindness,  conducted  them  into  his  wigwam. 

There  upon  mats  and  skins  they  reposed,  and  on  cakes  of  the  maize-ear 
Feasted,  and  slaked  their  thirst  from  the  water-gourd  of  the  teacher. 

Soon  was  their  story  told ; and  the  priest  with  solemnity  answered  : — 

“ Not  six  suns  have  risen  and  set  since  Gabriel,  seated 
On  this  mat  by  my  side,  where  now  the  maiden  reposes, 

Told  me  this  same  sad  tale  ; then  arose  and  continued  his  journey ! ” 

Soft  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  he  spake  with  an  accent  of  kindness ; 
But  on  Evangeline’s  heart  fell  his  words  as  in  winter  the  snow-flakes 
Fall  into  some  lone  nest  from  which  the  birds  have  departed. 

“ Far  to  the  north  he  has  gone,”  continued  the  priest ; “ but  in  autumn, 
When  the  chase  in  done,  will  return  again  to  the  Mission.” 

Then  Evangeline  said,  and  her  voice  was  meek  and  submissive, 

“ Let  me  remain  with  thee,  for  my  soul  is  sad  and  afflicted.” 

So  seemed  it  wise  and  well  unto  all ; and  betimes  on  the  morrow, 

Mounting  his  Mexican  steed,  with  his  Indian  guides  and  companions, 
Homeward  Basil  returned,  and  Evangeline  stayed  at  the  Mission. 


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181 


Slowly,  slowly,  slowly  the  days  succeeded  each  other,  — 

Days  and  weeks  and  months ; and  the  fields  of  maize  that  were  springing 
Green  from  the  ground  when  a stranger  she  came,  now  waving  above  her, 

Lifted  their  slender  shafts,  with  leaves  interlacing,  and  forming 
Cloisters  for  mendicant  crows  and  granaries  pillaged  by  squirrels. 

Then  in  the  golden  weather  the  maize  was  husked,  and  the  maidens 
Blushed  at  each  blood-red  ear,  for  that  betokened  a lover, 

But  at  the  crooked  laughed,  and  called  it  a thief  in  the  corn-field. 

Even  the  blood-red  ear  to  Evangeline  brought  not  her  lover. 

“ Patience ! ” the  priest  would  say ; “ Have  faith,  and  thy  prayer  will  be  answered ! 
Look  at  this  vigorous  plant  that  lifts  its  head  from  the  meadow, 

See  how  its  leaves  are  turned  to  the  north,  as  true  as  the  magnet ; 

This  is  the  compass-flower,  that  the  finger  of  God  has  planted 
Here  in  the  houseless  wild,  to  direct  the  traveller’s  journey 
Over  the  sea-like,  pathless,  limitless  waste  of  the  desert. 

Such  in  the  soul  of  man  is  faith.  The  blossoms  of  passion, 

Gay  and  luxuriant  flowers,  are  brighter  and  fuller  of  fragrance, 

But  they  beguile  us,  and  lead  us  astray,  and  their  odor  is  deadly. 

Only  this  humble  plant  can  guide  us  here,  and  hereafter 

Crown  us  with  asphodel  flowers,  that  are  wet  with  the  dews  of  nepenthe.” 

So  came  the  autumn,  and  passed,  and  the  winter,  — yet  Gabriel  came  not  ; 
Blossomed  the  opening  spring,  and  the  notes  of  the  robin  and  bluebird 
Sounded  sweet  upon  wold  and  in  wood,  yet  Gabriel  came  not. 

But  on  the  breath  of  the  summer  winds  a rumor  was  wafted 
Sweeter  than  song  of  bird,  or  hue  or  odor  of  blossom. 

Far  to  the  north  and  east,  it  said,  in  the  Michigan  forests, 

Gabriel  had  his  lodge  by  the  banks  of  the  Saginaw  River. 

And,  with  returning  guides,  that  sought  the  lakes  of  St.  Lawrence, 

Saying  a sad  farewell,  Evangeline  went  from  the  Mission. 

When  over  weary  ways,  by  long  and  perilous  marches, 

She  had  attained  at  length  the  depths  of  the  Michigan  forests, 

Found  she  the  hunter’s  lodge  deserted  and  fallen  to  ruin  ! 


182 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Thus  did  the  long  sad  years  glide  on,  and  in  seasons  and  places 
Divers  and  distant  far  was  seen  the  wandering  maiden  ; — 

Now  in  the  Tents  of  Grace  of  the  meek  Moravian  Missions, 

Now  in  the  noisy  camps  and  the  battle-fields  of  the  army, 

Now  in  secluded  hamlets,  in  towns  and  populous  cities. 

Like  a phantom  she  came,  and  passed  away  unremembered. 

Fair  was  she  and  young,  when  in  hope  began  the  long  journey  ; 

Faded  was  she  and  old,  when  in  disappointment  it  ended. 

Each  succeeding  year  stole  something  away  from  her  beauty, 

Leaving  behind  it,  broader  and  deeper,  the  gloom  and  the  shadow. 

Then  there  appeared  and  spread  faint  streaks  of  gray  o’er  her  forehead. 
Dawn  of  another  life,  that  broke  o’er  her  earthly  horizon, 

As  in  the  eastern  sky  the  first  faint  streaks  of  the  morning. 

V. 

Ik  that  delightful  land  which  is  washed  by  the  Delaware’s  waters, 
Guarding  in  sylvan  shades  the  name  of  Penn  the  apostle, 

Stands  on  the  banks  of  its  beautiful  stream  the  city  he  founded. 


There  all  the  air  is  balm,  and  the  peach  is  the  emblem  of  beauty. 

And  the  streets  still  reecho  the  names  of  the  trees  of  the  forest, 

As  if  they  fain  would  appease  the  Dryads  whose  haunts  they  molested. 
There  from  the  troubled  sea  had  Evangeline  landed,  an  exile, 

Finding  among  the  children  of  Penn  a home  and  a country. 

There  old  Rene  Leblanc  had  died  ; and  when  he  departed, 

Saw  at  his  side  only  one  of  all  his  hundred  descendants. 


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183 


Something  at  least  there  was  in  the  friendly  streets  of  the  city, 

Something  that  spake  to  her  heart,  and  made  her  no  longer  a stranger ; 
And  her  ear  was  pleased  with  the  Thee  and  Thou  of  the  Quakers, 

For  it  recalled  the  past,  the  old  Acadian  country, 

Where  all  men  were  equal,  and  all  were  brothers  and  sisters. 

So,  when  the  fruitless  search,  the  disappointed  endeavor, 

Ended,  to  recommence  no  more  upon  earth,  uncomplaining, 

Thither,  as  leaves  to  the  light,  were  turned  her  thoughts  and  her  footsteps. 
As  from  the  mountain’s  top  the  rainy  mists  of  the  morning 
Roll  away,  and  afar  we  behold  the  landscape  below  us, 

Sun-illumined,  with  shining  rivers  and  cities  and  hamlets, 

So  fell  the  mists  from  her  mind,  and  she  saw  the  world  far  below  her, 
Dark  no  longer,  but  all  illumined  with  love ; and  the  pathway 
Which  she  had  climbed  so  far,  lying  smooth  and  fair  in  the  distance. 
Gabriel  was  not  forgotten.  Within  her  heart  was  his  image, 

Clothed  in  the  beauty  of  love  and  youth,  as  last  she  beheld  him, 

Only  more  beautiful  made  by  his  death-like  silence  and  absence. 

Into  her  thoughts  of  him  time  entered  not,  for  it  was  not. 

Over  him  years  had  no  power  ; he  was  not  changed,  but  transfigured  ; 

He  had  become  to  her  heart  as  one  who  is  dead,  and  not  absent ; 

Patience  and  abnegation  of  self,  and  devotion  to  others, 

This  was  the  lesson  a life  of  trial  and  sorrow  had  taught  her. 

So  was  her  love  diffused,  but,  like  to  some  odorous  spices, 

Suffered  no  waste  nor  loss,  though  filling  the  air  with  aroma. 

Other  hope  had  she  none,  nor  wish  in  life,  but  to  follow 
Meekly,  with  reverent  steps,  the  sacred  feet  of  her  Saviour. 

Thus  many  years  she  lived  as  a Sister  of  Mercy  ; frequenting 
Lonely  and  wretched  roofs  in  the  croAvded  lanes  of  the  city, 

Where  distress  and  want  concealed  themselves  from  the  sunlight, 

Where  disease  and  sorrow  in  garrets  languished  neglected. 

Night  after  night,  when  the  Avorld  was  asleep,  as  the  Avatchman  repeated 
Loud,  through  the  gusty  streets,  that  all  was  Avell  in  the  city, 

High  at  some  lonely  windoAV  he  suav  the  light  of  her  taper. 

Day  after  day,  in  the  gray  of  the  daAvn,  as  sIoav  through  the  suburbs 
Plodded  the  German  farmer,  with  flowers  and  fruits  for  the  market, 

Met  he  that  meek,  pale  face,  returning  home  from  its  watchings. 

Then  it  came  to  pass  that  a pestilence  fell  on  the  city, 

Presaged  by  Avondrous  signs,  and  mostly  by  flocks  of  Avild  pigeons, 
Darkening  the  sun  in  their  flight,  Avith  naught  in  their  craAvs  but  an  acorn. 
And,  as  the  titles  of  the  sea  arise  in  the  month  of  September, 

Flooding  some  silver  stream,  till  it  spreads  to  a lake  in  the  meadoAV, 

So  death  Hooded  life,  and,  o’erfloAving  its  natural  margin, 

Spread  to  a brackish  lake,  the  silver  stream  of  existence. 

Wealth  had  no  power  to  bribe,  nor  beauty  to  charm,  the  oppressor  ; 

But  all  perished  alike  beneath  the  scourge  of  his  anger  ; — 

Only,  alas  ! the  poor,  Avho  had  neither  friends  nor  attendants, 

Crept  aAvay  to  die  in  the  almshouse,  home  of  the  homeless. 

Then  in  the  suburbs  it  stood,  in  the  midst  of  meadows  and  woodlands  ; — 
Noav  the  city  surrounds  it ; but  still,  with  its  gateway  and  Avicket 


184 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Meek,  in  the  midst  of  splendor,  its  humble  walls  seem  to  echo 
Softly  the  words  of  the  Lord : “ The  poor  ye  always  have  with  you.’ 

Thither,  by  night  and  by  day,  came  the  Sister  of  Mercy.  The  dying 
Looked  up  into  her  face,  and  thought,  indeed,  to  behold  there 
Gleams  of  celestial  light  encircle  her  forehead  with  splendor, 

Such  as  the  artist  paints  o'er  the  brows  of  saints  and  apostles, 

Or  such  as  hangs  by  night  o’er  a city  seen  at  a distance. 

Unto  their  eyes  it  seemed  the  lamps  of  the  city  celestial, 

Into  whose  shining  gates  erelong  their  spirits  would  enter. 

Thus,  on  a Sabbath  morn,  through  the  streets,  deserted  and  silent, 

Wending  her  quiet  way,  she  entered  the  door  of  the  almshouse. 

Sweet  on  the  summer  air  was  the  odor  of  flowers  in  the  garden  ; 

And  she  paused  on  her  way  to  gather  the  fairest  among  them, 

That  the  dying  once  more  might  rejoice  in  their  fragrance  and  beauty. 

Then,  as  she  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  corridors,  cooled  by  the  east-wind, 
Distant  and  soft  on  her  ear  fell  the  chimes  from  the  belfry  of  Christ  Church, 
While,  intermingled  with  these,  across  the  meadows  were  wafted 
Sounds  of  psalms,  that  were  sung  by  the  Swedes  in  their  church  at  Wicaco. 
Soft  as  descending  wings  fell  the  calm  of  the  hour  on  her  spirit ; 

Something  within  her  said,  “ At  length  thy  trials  are  ended  ” ; 

And,  with  light  in  her  looks,  she  entered  the  chambers  of  sickness. 

Noiselessly  moved  about  the  assiduous,  careful  attendants, 

Moistening  the  feverish  lip,  and  the  aching  brow,  and  in  silence 
Closing  the  sightless  eyes  of  the  dead,  and  concealing  their  faces, 

Where  on  their  pallets  they  lay,  like  drifts  of  snow  by  the  roadside. 

Many  a languid  head,  upraised  as  Evangeline  entered, 

Turned  on  its  pillow  of  pain  to  gaze  while  she  passed,  for  her  presence 
Fell  on  their  hearts  like  a ray  of  the  sun  on  the  walls  of  a prison. 

And,  as  she  looked  around,  she  saw  how  Death,  the  consoler, 

Laying  his  hand  upon  many  a heart,  had  healed  it  forever. 

Many  familiar  forms  had  disappeared  in  the  night  time  ; 

Vacant  their  places  were,  or  filled  already  by  strangers. 

Suddenly,  as  if  arrested  by  fear  or  a feeling  of  wonder, 

Still  she  stood,  with  her  colorless  lips  apart,  while  a shudder 

Ran  through  her  frame,  and,  forgotten,  the  flowerets  dropped  from  her  fingers, 

And  from  her  eyes  and  cheeks  the  light  and  bloom  of  the  morning. 

Then  there  escaped  from  her  lips  a cry  of  such  terrible  anguish, 

That  the  dying  heard  it,  and  started  up  from  their  pillows. 

On  the  pallet  before  her  was  stretched  the  form  of  an  old  man. 

Long,  and  thin,  and  gray  were  the  locks  that  shaded  his  temples  ; 

But,  as  he  lay  in  the  morning  light,  his  face  for  a moment 
Seemed  to  assume  once  more  the  forms  of  its  earlier  manhood ; 

So  are  wont  to  be  changed  the  faces  of  those  who  are  dying. 

Hot  and  red  on  his  lips  still  burned  the  flush  of  the  fever, 

As  if  life,  like  the  Hebrew,  with  blood  had  besprinkled  its  portals, 

That  the  Angel  of  Death  might  see  the  sign,  and  pass  over. 

Motionless,  senseless,  dying,  he  lay,  and  his  spirit  exhausted 
Seemed  to  be  sinking  down  through  infinite  depths  in  the  darkness, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


185 


Darkness  of  slumber  and  death,  forever  sinking  and  sinking. 

Then  through  those  realms  of  shade,  in  multiplied  reverberations, 

Heard  he  that  cry  of  pain,  and  through  the  hush  that  succeeded 
Whispered  a gentle  voice,  in  accents  tender  and  saint-like, 

“ Gabriel ! O my  beloved  ! ” and  died  away  into  silence. 

Then  lie  beheld,  in  a dream,  once  more  the  home  of  his  childhood ; 

Green  Acadian  meadows,  with  sylvan  rivers  among  them, 

Village,  and  mountain,  and  woodlands  ; and,  walking  under  their  shadow, 

As  in  the  days  of  her  youth,  Evangeline  rose  in  his  vision. 

Tears  came  into  his  eyes ; and  as  slowly  he  lifted  his  eyelids, 

Vanished  the  vision  away,  but  Evangeline  knelt  by  his  bedside. 

Vainly  he  strove  to  whisper  her  name,  for  the  accents  un uttered 

Died  on  his  lips,  and  their  motion  revealed  what  his  tongue  would  have  spoken. 

Vainly  he  strove  to  rise;  and  Evangeline,  kneeling  beside  him, 

Kissed  his  dying  lips,  and  laid  his  head  on  her  bosom. 

Sweet  was  the  light  of  his  eyes ; but  it  suddenly  sank  into  darkness, 

As  when  a lamp  is  blown  out  by  a gust  of  wind  at  a casement. 

All  was  ended  now,  the  hope,  and  the  fear,  and  the  sorrow, 

All  the  aching  of  heart,  the  restless,  unsatisfied  longing, 

24 


186 


THE  POETICAL.  WORKS  OF  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


All  the  dull,  deep  pain,  and  constant  anguish  of  patience ! 

And,  as  she  pressed  once  more  the  lifeless  head  to  her  bosom, 

Meekly  she  bowed  her  own,  and  murmured,  “Father,  I thank  thee!” 


Still  stands  the  forest  primeval  ; but  far  away  from  its  shadow, 

Side  by  side,  in  their  nameless  graves,  the  lovers  are  sleeping. 

Under  the  humble  walls  of  the  little  Catholic  churchyard, 

In  the  heart  of  the  city,  they  lie,  unknown  and  unnoticed. 

Daily  the  tides  of  life  go  ebbing  and  flowing  beside  them. 

Thousands  of  throbbing  hearts,  where  theirs  are  at  rest  and  forever. 
Thousands  of  aching  brains,  where  theirs  no  longer  are  busy, 

Thousands  of  toiling  hands,  where  theirs  have  ceased  from  their  labors, 
Thousands  of  weary  feet,  where  theirs  have  completed  their  journey  ! 

Still  stands  the  forest  primeval ; but  under  the  shade  of  its  branches 
Dwells  another  race,  with  other  customs  and  language. 

Only  along  the  shore  of  the  mournful  and  misty  Atlantic 
Linger  a few  Acadian  peasants,  whose  fathers  from  exile 
Wandered  back  to  their  native  land  to  die  in  its  bosom. 

In  the  fisherman’s  cot  the  wheel  and  the  loom  are  still  busy ; 

Maidens  still  wear  their  Norman  caps  and  their  kirtles  of  homespun, 
And  by  the  evening  fire  repeat  Evangeline’s  story, 

While  from  its  rocky  caverns  the  deep-voiced,  neighboring  ocean 
Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail  of  the  forest. 


7fi(  i 


rue 

OF  l 


* f », 
* 


is as 


DEDICATION. 


As  one  who,  walking  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
Hears  round  about  him  voices  as  it  darkens, 

And  seeing  not  the  forms  from  which  they 
come, 

Pauses  from  time  to  time,  and  turns  and 
hearkens ; 

So  walking  here  in  twilight,  O my  friends ! 

I hear  your  voices,  softened  by  the  dis- 
tance, 

And  pause,  and  turn  to  listen,  as  each  sends 
His  words  of  friendship,  comfort,  and  as- 
sistance. 

If  any  thought  of  mine,  or  sung  or  told, 

Has  ever  given  delight  or  consolation, 

Ye  have  repaid  me  back  a thousand-fold, 

By  every  friendly  sign  and  salutation. 

Thanks  for  the  sympathies  that  ye  have 
shown  ! 

Thanks  for  each  kindly  word,  each  silent 
token. 

That  teaches  me,  when  seeming  most  alone, 
Friends  are  around  us,  though  no  word  be 
spoken. 

Kind  messages,  that  pass  from  land  to  land ; 
Kind  letters,  that  betray  the  heart’s  deep 
history, 

In  which  Ave  feel  the  pressure  of  a hand,  — 
One  touch  of  fire,  — and  all  the  rest  is 
mystery  ! 

The  pleasant  books,  that  silently  among 
Our  household  treasures  take  familiar  places, 


And  are  to  us  as  if  a living  tongue 

Spake  from  the  printed  leaves  or  pictured 
faces ! 

Perhaps  on  earth  I never  shall  behold. 

With  eye  of  sense,  your  outward  form  and 
semblance  ; 

Therefore  to  me  ye  never  will  grow  old, 

But  live  foi’ever  young  in  my  remembrance  ! 

Never  groAV  old,  nor  change,  nor  pass  away  ! 
Your  gentle  voices  will  flow  on  forever, 

When  life  grows  bare  and  tarnished  with 
decay, 

As  through  a leafless  landscape  Aoavs  a 
river. 

Not  chance  of  birth  or  place  has  made  us 
friends, 

Being  oftentimes  of  different  tongues  and 
nations, 

But  the  endeavor  for  the  selfsame  ends, 

With  the  same  hopes,  and  fears,  and  aspira- 
tions. 

Therefore  I hope  to  join  your  seaside  walk, 
Saddened,  and  mostly  silent,  Avith  emo- 
tion ; 

Not  interrupting  Avith  intrusive  talk 

The  grand,  majestic  symphonies  of  ocean. 

Therefore  I hope,  as  no  unwelcome  guest, 

At  your  Avarm  fireside,  Avhen  the  lamps  are 
lighted, 

To  have  my  place  reserved  among  the  rest, 
Nor  stand  as  one  unsought  and  uninvited ! 


190 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


“ Build  me  straight,  O worthy  Master ! 
Stanch  and  strong,  a goodly  vessel, 

That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  ! " 

The  merchant’s  word 
Delighted  the  Master  heard  ; 

For  his  heart  was  in  his  work,  and  the  heart 
Giveth  grace  unto  every  Art. 

A quiet  smile  played  round  his  lips, 

As  the  eddies  and  dimples  of  the  tide 
Play  round  the  bows  of  ships, 

That  steadily  at  anchor  ride. 

And  with  a voice  that  was  full  of  glee, 

He  answered,  “ Erelong  we  will  launch 
A vessel  as  goodly,  and  strong,  and  stanch, 
As  ever  weathered  a wintry  sea ! ” 

And  first  with  nicest  skill  and  art, 

Perfect  and  finished  in  every  part, 

A little  model  the  Master  wrought, 

Which  should  be  to  the  larger  plan 
What  the  child  is  to  the  man, 

Its  counterpart  in  miniature  ; 

That  with  a hand  more  swift  and  sure 
The  greater  labor  might  be  brought 
To  answer  to  his  inward  thought. 

And  as  he  labored,  his  mind  ran  o'er 
The  various  ships  that  were  built  of  yore, 
And  above  them  all,  and  strangest  of  all 
Towered  the  Great  Harry,  crank  and  tall, 
Whose  picture  was  hanging  on  the  wall, 
With  bows  and  stern  raised  high  in  air, 

And  balconies  hanging  here  and  there, 

And  signal  lanterns  and  flags  afloat; 

And  eight  round  towers,  like  those  that  frown 
From  some  old  castle,  looking  down 


Upon  the  drawbridge  and  the  moat. 

And  he  said  with  a smile,  “ Our  ship,  I wis, 
Shall  be  of  another  form  than  this  ! ” 

It  was  of  another  form,  indeed; 

Built  for  freight,  and  yet  for  speed, 

A beautiful  and  gallant  craft; 

Broad  in  the  beam,  that  the  stress  of  the 
blast, 

Pressing  down  upon  sail  and  mast, 

Might  not  the  sharp  bows  overwhelm  ; 

Broad  in  the  beam,  but  sloping  aft 
With  graceful  curve  and  slow  degrees, 

That  she  might  be  docile  to  the  helm, 

And  that  the  currents  of  parted  seas, 
-Closing  behind,  with  mighty  force, 

Might  aid  and  not  impede  her  course. 

In  the  ship-yard  stood  the  Master, 

With  the  model  of  the  vessel, 

That  should  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  ! 

Covering  many  a rood  of  ground. 

Lay  the  timber  piled  around; 

Timber  of  chestnut,  and  elm,  and  oak. 

And  scattered  here  and  there,  with  these, 

The  knarred  and  crooked  cedar  knees; 
Brought  from  regions  far  away, 

From  Pascagoula’s  sunny  bay, 

And  the  banks  of  the  roaring  Roanoke! 

Ah  ! what  a wondrous  thing  it  is 
To  note  how  many  wheels  of  toil 
One  thought,  one  word,  can  set  in  motion  ! 
There ’s  not  a ship  that  sails  the  ocean, 

But  every  climate,  every  soil, 

Must  bring  its  tribute,  great  or  small, 

And  help  to  build  the  wooden  wall ! 


UK  NR  Y IF  A DS  WOR  TII  L ONGFELL  0 W. 


•191 


The  sun  was  rising  o'er  the  sea, 

And  long  the  level  shadows  lay, 

As  if  they,  too,  the  beams  would  be 
Of  some  great,  airy  argosy, 

Framed  and  launched  in  a single  day. 

That  silent  architect,  the  sun, 

Had  hewn  and  laid  them  every  one, 

Ere  the  work  of  man  was  yet  begun. 

Beside  the  Master,  when  he  spoke, 

A youth,  against  an  anchor  leaning, 

Listened,  to  catch  his  slightest  meaning. 
Only  the  long  waves,  as  they  broke 
In  ripples  on  the  pebbly  beach. 

Interrupted  the  old  man's  speech. 

Beautiful  they  were,  in  sooth, 

The  old  man  and  the  fiery  youth  ! 

The  old  man,  in  whose  busy  brain 
Many  a ship  that  sailed  the  main 
Was  modelled  o'er  and  o’er  again  ; — 

The  fiery  youth,  who  was  to  be 
The  heir  of  his  dexterity, 

The  heir  of  his  house,  and  his  daughter’s  hand, 
When  he  had  built  and  launched  from  land 
What  the  elder  head  had  planned. 


“ Thus,”  said  he,  “ will  we  build  this  ship ! 
Lay  square  the  blocks  upon  the  slip. 

And  follow  well  this  plan  of  mine. 

Choose  the  timbers  with  greatest  care  ; 

Of  all  that  is  unsound  beware  ; 

For  only  what  is  sound  and  strong 
To  this  vessel  shall  belong. 

Cedar  of  Maine  and  Georgia  pine 
Here  together  shall  combine. 

A goodly  frame,  and  a goodly  fame. 

And  the  Union  be  her  name  ! 

For  the  day  that  gives  her  to  the  sea 
Shall  give  my  daughter  unto  thee ! ” 

The  Master’s  word 

Enraptured  the  young  man  heard  ; 

And  as  he  turned  his  face  aside. 

With  a look  of  joy  and  a thrill  of  pride 
Standing  before 
Her  father’s  door, 

He  saw  the  form  of  his  promised  bride. 

The  sun  shone  on  her  golden  hair. 

And  her  cheek  was  glowing  fresh  and  fair, 
With  the  breath  of  morn  and  the  soft  sea  air 
Like  a beauteous  barge  was  she, 


192 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Still  at  rest  on  the  sandy  beach, 

Just  beyond  the  billow's  reach ; 

But  he 

Was  the  restless,  seething,  stormy  sea ! 

Ah,  how  skilful  grows  the  hand 
That  obeyeth  Love’s  command ! 

It  is  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain, 

That  to  the  highest  doth  attain, 

And  he  who  followeth  Love’s  behest 
Far  excelleth  all  the  rest  ! 

Thus  with  the  rising  of  the  sun 
Was  the  noble  task  begun, 

And  soon  throughout  the  ship-yard’s  bounds 
Were  heard  the  intermingled  sounds 
Of  axes  and  of  mallets,  plied 
With  vigorous  arms  on  every  side  ; 

Plied  so  deftly  and  so  well. 

That,  ere  the  shadows  of  evening  fell, 

The  keel  of  oak  for  a noble  ship. 

Scarfed  and  bolted,  straight  and  strong, 

Was  lying  ready,  and  stretched  along 
The  blocks,  well  placed  upon  the  slip. 

Happy,  thrice  happy,  every  one 
Who  sees  his  labor  well  begun, 

And  not  perplexed  and  multiplied, 

By  idly  waiting  for  time  and  tide  ! 

And  when  the  hot,  long  day  was  o’er, 

The  young  man  at  the  Master’s  door 
Sat  with  the  maiden  calm  and  still, 

And  within  the  porch,  a little  more 
Removed  beyond  the  evening  chill, 

The  father  sat,  and  told  them  tales 
Of  wrecks  in  the  great  September  gales, 

Of  pirates  coasting  the  Spanish  Main, 

And  ships  that  never  came  back  again, 

The  chance  and  change  of  a sailor's  life. 
Want  and  plenty,  rest  and  strife, 

His  roving  fancy,  like  the  wind, 

That  nothing  can  stay  and  nothing  can  bind, 
And  the  magic  charm  of  foreign  lands, 

With  shadows  of  palms,  and  shining  sands, 
Where  the  tumbling  surf, 

O’er  the  coral  reefs  of  Madagascar, 

Washes  the  feet  of  the  swarthy  Lascar, 

As  he  lies  alone  and  asleep  on  the  turf. 

And  the  trembling  maiden  held  her  breath 
At  the  tales  of  that  awful,  pitiless  sea, 


With  all  its  terror  and  mystery. 

The  dim,  dark  sea,  so  like  unto  Death, 

That  divides  and  yet  unites  mankind  ! 

And  whenever  the  old  man  paused,  a gleam 
From  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  would  awhile 
illume 

The  silent  group  in  the  twilight  gloom, 

And  thoughtful  faces,  as  in  a dream  ; 

And  for  a moment  one  might  mark 
What  had  been  hidden  by  the  dark, 

That  the  head  of  the  maiden  lay  at  rest, 
Tenderly,  on  the  young  man’s  breast  ! 

Day  by  day  the  vessel  grew, 

With  timbers  fashioned  strong  and  true, 
Stemson  and  keelson  and  sternson-knee, 

Till,  framed  with  perfect  symmetry, 

A skeleton  ship  rose  up  to  view  ! 

And  around  the  bows  and  along  the  side 
The  heavy  hammers  and  mallets  plied, 

Till  after  many  a week,  at  length, 

Wonderful  for  form  and  strength, 

Sublime  in  its  enormous  bulk, 

Loomed  aloft  the  shadowy  hulk  ! 

And  around  it  columns  of  smoke,  upwreathing, 
Rose  from  the  boiling,  bubbling,  seething 
Caldron,  that  glowed, 

And  overflowed 

With  the  black  tar,  heated  for  the  sheathing. 
And  amid  the  clamors 
Of  clattering  hammers, 

He  who  listened  heard  now  and  then 
The  song  of  the  Master  and  his  men : — 

“ Build  me  straight,  O worthy  Master, 

Stanch  and  strong,  a goodly  vessel. 

That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  1 ” 

With  oaken  brace  and  copper  band, 

Lay  the  rudder  on  the  sand, 

That,  like  a thought,  should  have  control 
O ver  the  movement  of  the  whole  ; 

And  near  it  the  anchor,  whose  giant  hand 
Would  reach  down  and  grapple  with  the  land, 
And  immovable  and  fast 

Hold  the  great  ship  against  the  bellowing 
blast ! 

And  at  the  bows  an  image  stood, 

By  a cunning  artist  carved  in  wood, 


Standing  before 
Her  father's  door, 

He  saw  the  form  of  his  promised  bride." 

The  Building  of  the  Shit 


TKt  MBRAHf 
OF  ruE 

OlflYElTTV  OF  1L1W01S 


HE  NR  Y WA  DS  WOR  TH  L ON  OF  EL  L 0 W 


193 


With  robes  of  white,  that  far  beliind 
Seemed  to  be  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

It  was  not  shaped  in  a classic  mould, 

Not  like  a Nymph  or  Goddess  of  old, 

Or  Naiad  rising  from  the  water, 

But  modelled  from  the  Master’s  daughter  ! 


Drugged  down  the  weary,  winding  road 
Those  captive  kings  so  straight  and  tall, 
To  be  shorn  of  their  streaming  hair, 

And  naked  and  bare, 

To  feel  the  stress  and  the  strain 
Of  the  wind  and  the  reeling  main, 


On  many  a dreary  and  misty  night, 

’T  will  be  seen  by  the  rays  of  the  signal  light, 
Speeding  along  through  the  rain  and  the  dark, 
Like  a ghost  in  its  snow-white  sark, 

The  pilot  of  some  phantom  bark, 

Guiding  the  vessel,  in  its  flight, 

By  a path  none  other  knows  aright  ! 

Behold,  at  last, 

Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 
Is  swung  into  its  place ; 

Shrouds  and  stays 
Holding  it  firm  and  fast  ! 

Long  ago, 

In  the  deer-haunted  forests  of  Maine, 

When  upon  mountain  and  plain 
Lay  the  snow, 

They  fell,  — those  lordly  pines  ! 

Those  grand,  majestic  pines  ! 

’Mid  shouts  and  cheers 
The  jaded  steers, 

Panting  beneath  the  goad. 


Whose  roar 

Would  remind  them  forevermore 
Of  their  native  forests  they  should  not  see 
again. 

And  everywhere 

The  slender,  graceful  spars 

Poise  aloft  in  the  air, 

And  at  the  mast-head, 

White,  blue,  and  red, 

A flag  unrolls  the  stripes  and  stars. 

Ah ! when  the  wanderer,  lonely,  friendless, 

In  foreign  harbors  shall  behold 
That  flag  unrolled, 

’T  will  be  as  a friendly  hand 
Stretched  out  from  his  native  land, 

Filling  his  heart  with  memories  sweet  and 
endless  ! 


194 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OE 


All  is  finished ! and  at  length 
Has  come  the  bridal  day 
Of  beauty  and  of  strength. 

To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched ! 
With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched, 
And  o’er  the  bay, 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  (light, 

The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 

The  ocean  old, 

Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled, 
Paces  restless  to  and  fro, 

Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 


His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest ; 

And  far  and  wide, 

With  ceaseless  flow, 

His  beai’d  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 

He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 

There  she  stands, 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 

Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay. 

In  honor  of  her  marriage  day, 

Her  snow-white  signals  fluttering,  blending. 
Round  her  like  a veil  descending, 

Ready  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  gray  old  sea. 


On  the  deck  another  bride 
Is  standing  by  her  lover’s  side. 

Shadows  from  the  flags  and  shrouds, 
Like  the  shadows  cast  by  clouds, 
Broken  by  many  a sunny  fleck, 

Fall  around  them  on  the  deck. 

The  prayer  is  said, 

The  service  read, 

The  joyous  bridegroom  bows  his  head  ; 
And  in  tears  the  good  old  Master 


Shakes  the  brown  hand  of  his  son, 
Kisses  his  daughter’s  glowing  cheek 
In  silence,  for  he  cannot  speak. 

And  ever  faster 

Down  his  own  the  tears  begin  to  run. 
The  worthy  pastor  — 

The  shepherd  of  that  wandering  flock. 
That  has  the  ocean  for  its  wold, 

That  has  the  vessel  for  its  fold, 
Leaping  ever  from  rock  to  rock  — 
Spake,  with  accents  mild  and  clear, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


195 


Words  of  warning,  words  of  cheer, 

But  tedious  to  the'  bridegroom’s  ear. 
lie  knew  the  chart 
Of  the  sailor’s  heart, 

All  its  pleasures  and  its  griefs, 

All  its  shallows  and  rocky  reefs, 

All  those  secret  currents,  that  flow 
With  such  resistless  undertow, 

And  lift  and  drift,  with  terrible  force, 

The  will  from  its  moorings  and  its  course. 
Therefore  he  spake,  and  thus  said  he : — 
Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea, 

Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 

Before,  behind,  and  all  around, 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound, 

Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 

And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies, 

And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink, 

As  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 

Ah ! it  is  not  the  sea, 

It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 

But  ourselves 

That  rock  and  rise 

With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, 

Now  touching  the  very  skies, 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean. 

Ah ! if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 
Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 

We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 
The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining 
beach 

The  sights  we  see,  and  the  sounds  we  hear, 
Will  be  those  of  joy  and  not  of  fear  ! ” 

Then  the  Master, 

With  a gesture  of  command, 

W aved  his  hand  ; 

And  at  the  word, 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard, 

All  around  them  and  below, 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow, 
Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 

And  see ! she  stirs  ! 

She  starts,  — she  moves,  — she  seems  to  feel 
The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel, 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 
With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 


She  leaps  into  the  ocean’s  arms  ! 

And  lo  ! from  the  assembled  crowd 
There  rose  a shout,  prolonged  and  loud, 
That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say, 

“ Take  her,  O bridegroom,  old  and  gray, 
Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms, 

With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms ! ” 

Mow  beautiful  she  is  ! IIow  fair 
She  lies  within  those  arms,  that  press 
Her  form  with  many  a soft  caress 
Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care ! 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O ship  ! 

Through  wind  and  wave,  right  onward  steer! 
The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 

Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 

O gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 

And  safe  from  all  adversity 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 
Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  be  ! 

For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 
Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust ; 

And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 
Something  immortal  still  survives  ! 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O Ship  of  State  ! 

Sail  on,  O Union,  strong  and  great  ! 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 

With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 

Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  ! 

We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 

What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 

In  what  a forge  and  what  a heat 
W ere  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope ! 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 

’T  is  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock  ; 

’T  is  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 

And  not  a rent  made  by  the  gale  ! 

In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest’s  roar, 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea ! 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 
Our  faith  triumphant  o’er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with  thee,  — are  all  with  thee ! 


196 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


SEAWEED. 


When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 
The  gigantic 

Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 

Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 
The  toiling  surges, 

Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rocks : 

From  Bermuda’s  reefs;  from  edges 
Of  sunken  ledges, 

In  some  far-off,  bright  Azore  ; 

From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing, 
Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador  ; 

From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 
The  Orkneyan  skerries, 

Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides  ; 

And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 
Spars,  uplifting 

On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas ; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 
On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  main  ; 

Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 
Of  sandy  beaches, 

All  have  found  repose  again. 


So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 
Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet’s  soul,  erelong 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness, 

Floats  some  fragment  of  a song : 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted, 

Heaven  lias  planted 
With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth  ; 

From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 
Gleams  Elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth ; 

From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavor 
That  forever 

Wrestle  with  the  tides  of  Fate  ; 

From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 
Tempest-shattered, 

Floating  waste  and  desolate  ; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 
On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  heart ; 

Till  at  length  in  books  recorded, 

They,  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  depart. 


HENR  Y 1VA DS  WOR  TII  L ONGFEL L O W. 


197 


CHRYSAOR. 


Just  above  yon  sandy  bar, 

As  the  day  grows  fainter  and  dimmer, 
Lonely  and  lovely,  a single  star 

Lights  the  air  with  a dusky  glimmer. 

Chrysaor,  rising  out  of  the  sea, 

Showed  thus  glorious  and  thus  emulous, 
Leaving  the  arms  of  Callirrlioe, 

Forever  tender,  soft,  and  tremulous. 

Into  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Falls  the  trail  of  its  golden  splendor, 
And  the  gleam  of  that  single  star 
Is  ever  refulgent,  soft,  and  tender. 

Thus  o’er  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Trailed  the  gleam  of  his  falchion  brightly  ; 
Is  it  a God,  or  is  it  a star 

That,  entranced,  I gaze  on  nightly  ! 

THE  SECRET 

OF  THE  SEA. 

Ah  ! what  pleasant  visions  haunt  me 
As  I gaze  upon  the  sea  ! 

All  the  old  romantic  legends, 

All  my  dreams,  come  back  to  me. 

How  he  heard  the  ancient  helmsman 
Chant  a song  so  wild  and  clear, 
That  the  sailing  sea-bird  slowly 
* Poised  upon  the  mast  to  hear, 

Sails  of  silk  and  ropes  of  sandal, 
Such  as  gleam  in  ancient  lore ; 
And  the  singing  of  the  sailors, 

And  the  answer  from  the  shore  ! 

Till  his  soul  was  full  of  longing, 

And  he  cried,  with  impulse  strong,  — - 
“ Helmsman  ! for  the  love  of  heaven, 
Teach  me,  too,  that  wondrous  song ! ” 

Most  of  all,  the  Spanish  ballad 
Haunts  me  oft,  and  tarries  long, 
Of  the  noble  Count  Arnaldos 
And  the  sailor’s  mystic  song. 

“ Wouldst  thou,” — so  the  helmsman  answered, 
“ Learn  the  secret  of  the  sea  ? 

Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 
Comprehend  its  mystery  ! ” 

Like  the  long  waves  on  a sea-beach, 
Where  the  sand  as  silver  shines, 
With  a soft,  monotonous  cadence, 
Flow  its  unrhymed  lyric  lines ; — 

In  each  sail  that  skims  the  horizon, 
In  each  landward-blowing  breeze, 

I behold  that  stately  galley, 

Hear  those  mournful  melodies  ; 

Telling  how  the  Count  Arnaldos, 
With  his  hawk  upon  his  hand, 
Saw  a fair  and  stately  galley, 
Steering  onward  to  the  land ; — 

Till  my  soul  is  full  of  longing 
For  the  secret  of  the  sea, 

And  the  heart  of  the  great  ocean 
Sends  a thrilling  pulse  through  me. 

TWILIGHT. 


The  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 
The  wind  blows  wild  and  free. 
And  like  the  wings  of  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea. 

And  a little  face  at  the  window 
Peers  out  into  the  night. 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 
As  if  those  childish  eyes 

But  in  the  fisherman’s  cottage 
There  shines  a ruddier  light, 

Were  looking  into  the  darkness, 
To  see  some  form  arise. 

198 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


And  a woman’s  waving  shadow 
Is  passing  to  and  fro, 

Now  rising  to  the  ceiling, 

Now  bowing  and  bending  low. 

What  tale  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  bleak  and  wild, 


As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement, 

Tell  to  that  little  child  ? 

And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  wild  and  bleak, 
As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother 
Drive  the  color  from  her  cheek  ? 


SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT. 


Southward  with  ileet  of  ice 
Sailed  the  corsair  Death  ; 

Wild  and  fast  blew  the  blast, 

And  the  east-wind  was  his  breath. 

His  lordly  ships  of  ice 
Glisten  in  the  sun ; 

On  each  side,  like  pennons  wide, 
Flashing  crystal  streamlets  run. 

His  sails  of  white  sea-mist 
Dripped  with  silver  rain ; 

But  where  he  passed  there  were  cast 
Leaden  shadows  o’er  the  main. 

Eastward  from  Campobello 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed  ; 

Three  days  or  more  seaward  lie  bore, 
Then,  alas ! the  land-wind  failed. 

Alas ! the  land-wind  failed, 

And  ice-cold  grew  the  night ; 

And  nevermore,  on  sea  or  shore, 
Should  Sir  Humphrey  see  the  light. 

He  sat  upon  the  deck. 

The  Book  was  in  his  hand  ; 


“ Do  not  fear ! Heaven  is  as  near,” 

He  said,  “ by  water  as  by  land  ! ” 

In  the  first  watch  of  the  night, 

Without  a signal’s  sound, 

Out  of  the  sea,  mysteriously, 

The  fleet  of  Death  rose  all  around. 

The  moon  and  the  evening  star 
Were  hanging  in  the  shrouds  ; 

Every  mast,  as  it  passed, 

Seemed  to  rake  the  passing  clouds. 

They  grappled  with  their  prize, 

At  midnight  black  and  cold  ! 

As  of  a rock  was  the  shock ; 

Heavily  the  ground-swell  rolled. 

Southward  through  day  and  dark, 

They  drift  in  close  embrace, 

With  mist  and  rain,  o'er  the  open  main  ; 
Yet  there  seems  no  change  of  place. 

Southward,  forever  southward, 

They  drift  through  dark  and  day  ; 

And  like  a dream,  in  the  Gulf-Stream 
Sinking,  vanish  all  away. 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 


The  rocky  ledge  runs  far  into  the  sea, 

And  on  its  outer  point,  some  miles  away, 
The  Lighthouse  lifts  its  massive  masonry, 

A pillar  of  fire  by  night,  of  cloud  by  day. 

Even  at  this  distance  I can  see  the  tides, 
Upheaving,  break  unheard  along  its  base, 


A speechless  wrath,  that  rises  and  subsides 
In  the  white  lip  and  tremor  of  the  face. 

And  as  the  evening  darkens,  lo  ! how  bright. 
Through  the  deep  purple  of  the  twilight  air, 
Beams  forth  the  sudden  radiance  of  its  light 
With  strange,  unearthly  splendor  in  the  glare! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


399 


Not  one  alone  ; from  each  projecting  cape 
*■  And  perilous  reef  along  the  ocean's  verge, 
Starts  into  life  a dim,  gigantic  shape, 

Holding  its  lantern  o’er  the  restless  surge. 

Like  the  great  giant  Christopher  it  stands 
Upon  the  brink  of  the  tempestuous  wave, 
Wading  far  out  among  the  rocks  and  sands, 
The  night-o’ertaken  mariner  to  save. 

And  the  great  ships  sail  outward  and  return, 
Bending  and  bowing  o'er  the  billoAvy  swells, 
And  ever  joyful,  as  they  see  it  burn, 

They  wave  their  silent  welcomes  and  fare- 
wells. 

They  come  forth  from  the  darkness,  and  their 
sails 

Gleam  for  a moment  only  in  the  blaze, 
And  eager  faces,  as  the  light  unveils, 

Gaze  at  the  tower,  and  vanish  while  they  gaze. 

The  mariner  remembers  when  a child, 

On  his  first  voyage,  lie  saw  it  fade  and  sink ; 
And  when,  returning  from  adventures  wild, 
He  saw  it  rise  again  o'er  ocean's  brink. 

Steadfast,  serene,  immovable,  the  same 

Year  after  year,  through  all  the  silent  night 


Burns  on  forevermore  that  quenchless  flame, 
Shines  on  that  inextinguishable  light ! 

It  sees  the  ocean  to  its  bosom  clasp 

The  rocks  and  sea-sand  with  the  kiss  of 
peace ; 

It  sees  the  wild  winds  lift  it  in  their  grasp, 
And  hold  it  up,  and  shake  it  like  a ileece. 

The  startled  waves  leap  over  it ; the  storm 
Smites  it  with  all  the  scourges  of  the  rain, 

And  steadily  against  its  solid  form 

Press  the  great  shoulders  of  the  hurricane. 

The  sea-bird  wheeling  round  it,  with  the  din 
Of  wings  and  winds  and  solitary  cries, 

Blinded  and  maddened  by  the  light  within, 
Dashes  himself  against  the  glare,  and  dies. 

A new  Prometheus,  chained  upon  the  rock, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  the  fire  of  Jove, 

It  does  not  hear  the  cry,  nor  heed  the  shock, 
But  hails  the  mariner  with  words  of  love. 

“ Sail  on  ! ” it  says,  “ sail  on,  ye  stately  ships  ! 
And  with  your  floating  bridge  the  ocean 
span  ; 

Be  mine  to  guard  this  light  from  all  eclipse, 
Be  yours  to  bring  man  nearer  unto  man  ! ” 


THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD. 

DEVEREUX  FARM,  NEAR  MARBLEHEAD. 


We  sat  within  the  farm-house  old, 

Whose  windows,  looking  o’er  the  bay, 

Gave  to  the  sea-breeze  damp  and  cold, 
An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day. 

Not  far  away  we  saw  the  port, 

The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent  town, 

The  lighthouse,  the  dismantled  fort. 

The  wooden  houses,  quaint  and  brown. 

We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night, 
Descending,  filled  the  little  room  ; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight, 

Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 


We  spake  of  many  a vanished  scene, 

Of  what  we  once  had  thought  and  said, 

Of  what  had  been,  and  might  have  been, 
And  who  was  changed,  and  who  was  dead  ; 

And  all  that  fills  the  hearts  of  friends, 

When  first  they  feel,  with  secret  pain, 
Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate  ends, 
And  never  can  be  one  again  ; 

The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heart, 

That  words  are  powerless  to  express, 

And  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 

Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 


200 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 

Had  something  strange,  I could  but  mark ; 

The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A mournful  rustling  in  the  dark. 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips, 

As  suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 

Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships, 

The  flames  would  leap  and  then  expire. 

And,  as  their  splendor  flashed  and  failed, 

We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main, 

Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again. 


The  windows,  rattling  in  their  frames, 

The  ocean,  roaring  up  the  beach, 

The  gusty  blast,  the  bickering  flames, 

All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech ; 

Until  they  made  themselves  a part 
Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain, 

The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart, 

That  send  no  answers  back  again. 

O flames  that  glowed  ! O hearts  that  yearned  ! 

They  were  indeed  too  much  akin, 

The  drift-wood  fire  without  that  burned, 

The  thoughts  that  burned  and  glowed  within. 


RESIGNATION. 


There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and 
tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 

There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe’er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead ; 

The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 
Will  not  be  comforted! 

Let  us  be  patient ! These  severe  afflictions 
Not  from  the  ground  arise, 

But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 
Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and 
vapors ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 
May  be  heaven’s  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death  ! What  seems  so  is  tran- 
sition ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead,  — the  child  of  our  affection,  — 
But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 
And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister’s  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 

26 


Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin’s  pollution, 
She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 
In  those  bright  realms  of  air  ; 

Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 
Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  un- 
broken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 

Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  un- 
spoken, 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives, 

Not  as  a child  shall  we  again  behold  her ; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  w7ill  not  be  a child  ; 

But  a fair  maiden,  in  her  Father’s  mansion, 
Clothed  with  celestial  grace ; 

And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul’s  expansion 
Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with  emotion 
And  anguish  long  suppressed, 

The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the 
ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest,  — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 
We  may  not  wholly  stay  ; 

By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


202 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


THE  BUILDERS. 

Each  minute  and  unseen  part ; 

For  the  Gods  see  everywhere. 

Let  us  do  our  work  as  well, 

Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen  ; 

Make  the  house,  where  Gods  may  dwell, 
Beautiful,  entire,  and  clean. 


All  are  architects  of  Fate, 

Working  in  these  walls  of  Time ; 
Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

Nothing  useless  is,  or  low  ; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best  ; 

And  what  seems  but  idle  show 
Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest. 

For  the  structure  that  we  raise, 

Time  is  with  materials  tilled  ; 

Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 

Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

Truly  shape  and  fashion  these ; 

Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between  ; 
Think  not,  because  no  man  sees, 

Such  things  will  remain  unseen. 

In  the  elder  days  of  Art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 


Else  our  lives  are  incomplete, 
Standing  in  these  walls  of  Time, 

Broken  stairways,  where  the  feet 
Stumble  as  they  seek  to  climb. 

Build  to-day,  then,  strong  and  sure, 
With  a firm  and  ample  base; 

And  ascending  and  secure 

Shall  to-morrow  find  its  place. 

Thus  alone  can  we  attain 

To  those  turrets,  where  the  eye 

Sees  the  world  as  one  vast  plain, 
And  one  boundless  reach  of  sky. 


SAND  OF  THE  DESERT  IN  AN  HOUR-GLASS. 


A HANDFUL  of  red  sand,  from  the  hot  clime 
Of  Arab  deserts  brought, 

Within  this  glass  becomes  the  spy  of  Time, 
The  minister  of  Thought. 

How  many  weary  centuries  has  it  been 
About  those  deserts  blown ! 

How  many  strange  vicissitudes  has  seen. 

How  many  histories  known  ! 

Perhaps  the  camels  of  the  Ishmae.lite 
Trampled  and  passed  it  o’er, 

When  into  Egypt  from  the  patriarch’s  sight 
His  favorite  son  they  bore. 

Perhaps  the  feet  of  Moses,  burnt  and  bare, 
Crushed  it  beneath  their  tread, 

Or  Pharaoh’s  flashing  wheels  into  the  air 
Scattered  it  as  they  sped  ; 


Or  Mary,  with  the  Christ  of  Nazareth 
Held  close  in  her  caress, 

Whose  pilgrimage  of  hope  and  love  and  faith 
Illumed  the  wilderness ; 

Or  anchorites  beneath  Engaddi’s  palms 
Pacing  the  Dead  Sea  beach, 

And  singing  slow  their  old  Armenian  psalms 
In  half-articulate  speech  ; 

Or  caravans,  that  from  Bassora’s  gate 
With  westward  steps  depart ; 

Or  Mecca’s  pilgrims,  confident  of  Fate, 

And  resolute  in  heart ! 

These  have  passed  over  it,  or  may  have  passed  ! 
Now  in  this  crystal  tower 

Imprisoned  by  some  curious  hand  at  last, 

It  counts  the  passing  hour. 


MENU  Y WADS  WOR  TH  LONG  FELL  0 W. 


20 


And  as  I gaze,  these  narrow  walls  expand  ; 

Before  my  dreamy  eye 
Stretches  the  desert  with  its  shifting  sand, 
Its  unimpeded  sky. 

And  borne  aloft  by  the  sustaining  blast, 
This  little  golden  thread 
Dilates  into  a column  high  and  vast, 

A form  of  fear  and  dread. 


And  onward,  and  across  the  setting  sun, 
Across  the  boundless  plain, 

The  column  and  its  broader  shadow  run, 
Till  thoughts  pursues  in  vain. 

The  vision  vanishes  ! These  walls  again 
Shut  out  the  lurid  sun, 

Shut  out  the  hot,  immeasurable  plain  ; 
The  half-hour's  sand  is  run  ! 


THE  OPEN  WINDOW. 


The  old  house  by  the  lindens 
Stood  silent  in  the  shade, 

And  on  the  gravelled  pathway 
The  light  and  shadow  played. 

I saw  the  nursery  windows 
Wide  open  to  the  air  ; 

But  the  faces  of  the  children, 

They  were  no  longer  there. 

The  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 
Was  standing  by  the  door; 

He  looked  for  his  little  playmates. 
Who  would  return  no  more. 


They  walked  not  under  the  lindens, 
They  played  not  in  the  hall ; 

But  shadow,  and  silence,  and  sadness 
Were  hanging  over  all. 

The  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 

With  sweet,  familiar  tone ; 

But  the  voices  of  the  children 
Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone  ! 

And  the  boy  that  walked  beside  me, 
He  could  not  understand 

Why  closer  in  mine,  ah  ! closer, 

I pressed  his  warm,  soft  hand  ! 


204 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


KING  WITLAF’S  DRINKING-HORN. 


W itlaf,  a king  of  the  Saxons, 

Ere  yet  his  last  he  breathed, 

To  the  merry  monks  of  Croyland 
His  drinking-horn  bequeathed,  — 

That,  whenever  they  sat  at  their  revels, 
And  drank  from  the  golden  bowl, 

They  might  remember  the  donor, 

And  breathe  a prayer  for  his  soul. 

So  sat  they  once  at  Christmas, 

And  bade  the  goblet  pass  ; 

In  their  beards  the  red  wine  glistened 
Like  dew-drops  in  the  grass. 

They  drank  to  the  soul  of  Witlaf, 

They  drank  to  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  to  each  of  the  Twelve  Apostles, 
Who  had  preached  his  holy  word. 

They  drank  to  the  Saints  and  Martyrs 
Of  the  dismal  days  of  yore, 

And  as  soon  as  the  horn  was  empty 
They  remembered  one  Saint  more. 


And  the  reader  droned  from  the  pulpit, 
Like  the  murmur  of  many  bees, 

The  legend  of  good  Saint  Guthlac, 

And  Saint  Basil’s  homilies ; 

Till  the  great  bells  of  the  convent, 

From  their  prison  in  the  tower, 

Guthlac  and  Bartliolomseus, 

Proclaimed  the  midnight  hour. 

And  the  Yule-log  cracked  in  the  chimney, 
And  the  Abbot  bowed  his  head, 

And  the  flamelets  flapped  and  flickered, 
But  the  Abbot  was  stark  and  dead. 

Yet  still  in  his  pallid  fingers 
He  clutched  the  golden  bowl, 

In  which,  like  a pearl  dissolving, 

Had  sunk  and  dissolved  his  soul. 

But  not  for  this  their  revels 
The  jovial  monks  forbore, 

For  they  cried,  “ Fill  high  the  goblet ! 

We  must  drink  to  one  Saint  more  ! ” 


GASPAR  BECERRA. 


By  his  evening  fire  the  artist 
Pondered  o’er  his  secret  shame ; 

Baffled,  weary,  and  disheartened, 

Still  he  mused,  and  dreamed  of  fame. 

’T  was  an  image  of  the  Virgin 
That  had  tasked  his  utmost  skill ; 

But,  alas ! his  fair  ideal 

Vanished  and  escaped  him  still. 

From  a distant  Eastern  island 

Had  the  precious  wood  been  brought  ; 

Day  and  night  the  anxious  master 
At  his  toil  untiring  wrought ; 

Till,  discouraged  and  desponding, 

Sat  he  now  in  shadows  deep, 


And  the  day’s  humiliation 
Found  oblivion  in  sleep. 

Then  a voice  cried,  “ Rise,  O master ! 

From  the  burning  brand  of  oak 
Shape  the  thought  that  stirs  within  thee  ! ” 
And  the  startled  artist  woke,  — 

Woke,  and  from  the  smoking  embers 
Seized  and  quenched  the  glowing  wood ; 
And  therefrom  he  carved  an  image, 

And  he  suav  that  it  was  good. 

O thou  sculptor,  painter,  poet ! 

Take  this  lesson  to  thy  heart : 

That  is  best  which  lieth  nearest ; 

Shape  from  that  thy  work  of  art. 


HENli  Y WA  DS  W OR  TU  L ON  (JFELL  O W. 


205 


PEGASUS  IN  POUND. 


Once  into  a quiet  village, 

Without  haste  and  without  heed. 

In  the  golden  prime  of  morning, 

Strayed  the  poet’s  winged  steed. 

It  was  Autumn,  and  incessant 

Piped  the  quails  from  shocks  and  sheaves, 

And,  like  living  coals,  the  apples 
Burned  among  the  withering  leaves. 

Loud  the  clamorous  bell  was  ringing 
From  its  belfry  gaunt  and  grim  ; 

’T  was  the  daily  call  to  labor, 

Not  a triumph  meant  for  him. 

Not  the  less  he  saw  the  landscape, 

In  its  gleaming  vapor  veiled ; 

Not  the  less  he  breathed  the  odors 
That  the  dying  leaves  exhaled. 

Thus,  upon  the  village  common. 

By  the  school-boys  he  was  found ; 


And  the  wise  men,  in  their  wisdom. 
Put  him  straightway  into  pound. 

Then  the  sombre  village  crier, 

Ringing  loud  his  brazen  bell. 

Wandered  down  the  street  proclaiming 
There  was  an  estray  to  sell. 

And  the  curious  country  people, 

Rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old, 

Came  in  haste  to  see  this  wondrous 
Winged  steed,  with  mane  of  gold. 

Thus  the  day  passed,  and  the  evening 
Fell,  with  vapors  cold  and  dim  ; 

But  it  brought  no  food  nor  shelter, 
Brought  no  straw  nor  stall,  for  him. 

Patiently,  and  still  expectant, 

Looked  he  through  the  wooden  bars, 

Saw  the  moon  rise  o’er  the  landscape, 
Saw  the  tranquil,  patient  stars ; 


06 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Till  at  length  the  bell  at  midnight 
Sounded  from  its  dark  abode, 

And,  from  out  a neighboring  farm-yard, 
Loud  the  cock  Alectryon  crowed. 

Then,  with  nostrils  wide  distended, 
Breaking  from  his  iron  chain. 

And  unfolding  far  his  pinions, 

To  those  stars  he  soared  again. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  village 
Woke  to  all  its  toil  and  care, 


Lo  ! the  strange  steed  had  departed, 
And  they  knew  not  when  nor  where. 

But  they  found,  upon  the  greensward 
Where  his  struggling  hoofs  had  trod, 
Pure  and  bright,  a fountain  flowing 
From  the  hoof-marks  in  the  sod. 

From  that  hour,  the  fount  unfailing 
Gladdens  the  whole  region  round, 
Strengthening  all  who  drink  its  waters, 
While  it  soothes  them  with  its  sound. 


TEGNER’S  DRAPA. 


I heard  a voice,  that  cried, 

“ Balder  the  Beautiful 
Is  dead,  is  dead ! ” 

And  through  the  misty  air 
Passed  like  the  mournful  cry 
Of  sunward  sailing  cranes. 

I saw  the  pallid  corpse 
Of  the  dead  sun 

Borne  through  the  Northern  sky. 
Blasts  from  Niffelheim 
Lifted  the  sheeted  mists 
Around  him  as  he  passed. 

And  the  voice  forever  cried, 

“ Balder  the  Beautiful 
Ls  dead,  is  dead  ! ” 

And  died  away 
Through  the  dreary  night, 

In  accents  of  despair. 


Balder  the  Beautiful, 

God  of  the  summer  sun, 

Fairest  of  all  the  Gods  ! 

Light  from  his  forehead  beamed, 
Runes  were  upon  his  tongue, 

As  on  the  warrior's  sword. 

All  things  in  earth  and  air 
Bound  were  by  magic  spell 
Never  to  do  him  harm  ; 

Even  the  plants  and  stones ; 

All  save  the  mistletoe, 

The  sacred  mistletoe  ! 

Hoeder,  the  blind  old  God, 

Whose  feet  are  shod  with  silence, 
Pierced  through  that  gentle  breast 
With  his  sharp  spear,  by  fraud, 
Made  of  the  mistletoe, 

The  accursed  mistletoe  ! 


HENR  Y WADS  WORTH  L ON  OF  ELL  0 W. 


207 


They  laid  him  in  his  ship. 

With  horse  and  harness, 

As  on  a funeral  pyre. 

Odin  placed 
A ring  upon  his  linger, 

And  whispered  in  his  ear. 

They  launched  the  burning  ship ! 
It  floated  far  away 
Over  the  misty  sea. 

Till  like  the  sun  it  seemed, 
Sinking  beneath  the  waves. 
Balder  returned  no  more ! 

So  perish  the  old  Gods  ! 

But  out  of  the  sea  of  Time 
Rises  a new  land  of  song, 

Fairer  than  the  old. 

Over  its  meadows  green 
Walk  the  young  bards  and  sing. 


Build  it  again, 

O ye  bards, 

Fairer  than  before  ! 

Ye  fathers  of  the  new  race, 
Feed  upon  morning  dew, 

Sing  the  new  Song  of  Love ! 

The  law  of  force  is  dead  ! 
The  law  of  love  prevails ! 
Thor,  the  thunderer, 

Shall  rule  the  earth  no  more, 
No  more,  with  threats, 
Challenge  the  meek  Christ. 

Sing  no  more, 

O ye  bards  of  the  North. 

Of  Vikings  and  of  Jarls ! 

Of  the  days  of  Eld 
Preserve  the  freedom  only, 
Not  the  deeds  of  blood  ! 


SONNET. 

on  mrs.  kemble's  readings  from  shakespeare. 


O precious  evenings  ! all  too  swiftly  sped  ! 
Leaving  us  heirs  to  amplest  heritages 
Of  all  the  best  thoughts  of  the  greatest 
sages, 

And  giving  tongues  unto  the  silent  dead ! 
How  our  hearts  glowed  and  trembled  as  she  read. 
Interpreting  by  tones  the  wondrous  pages 
Of  the  great  poet  who  foreruns  the  ages, 


Anticipating  all  that  shall  be  said  ! 

O happy  Reader  ! having  for  thy  text 

The  magic  book,  whose  Sibylline  leaves  have 
caught 

The  rarest  essence  of  all  human  thought ! 
O happy  Poet ! by  no  critic  vext ! 

How  must  thy  listening  spirit  now  rejoice 
To  be  interpreted  by  such  a voice  ! 


THE  SINGERS. 


God  sent  his  Singers  upon  earth 
With  songs  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 

That  they  might  touch  the  hearts  of  men. 
And  bring  them  back  to  heaven  again. 

The  first,  a youth  with  soul  of  fire. 

Held  in  his  hand  a golden  lyre  ; 

Through  groves  he  wandered,  and  by  streams, 
Playing  the  music  of  our  dreams. 


The  second,  with  a bearded  face, 

Stood  singing  in  the  market-place, 

And  stirred  with  accents  deep  and  loud 
The  hearts  of  all  the  listening  crowd. 

A gray  old  man,  the  third  and  last. 
Sang  in  cathedrals  dim  and  vast. 

While  the  majestic  organ  rolled 
Contrition  from  its  mouths  of  gold. 


208 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


And  those  who  heard  the  Singers  three 
Disputed  which  the  best  might  be  ; 

For  still  their  music  seemed  to  start 
Discordant  echoes  in  each  heart. 

But  the  great  Master  said,  u I see 
No  best  in  kind,  but  in  degree ; 


I gave  a various  gift  to  each, 

To  charm,  to  strengthen,  and  to  teach. 

“ These  are  the  three  great  chords  of  might, 
And  he  whose  ear  is  tuned  aright 
Will  hear  no  discord  in  the  three, 

But  the  most  perfect  harmony.  ” 


SUSPIRIA. 


Take  them,  O Death  ! and  bear  away 
Whatever  thou  canst  call  thine  own  ! 
Thine  image,  stamped  upon  this  clay, 
Doth  give  thee  that,  but  that  alone ! 

Take  them,  O Grave  ! and  let  them  lie 
Folded  upon  thy  narrow  shelves. 


As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by, 

And  precious  only  to  ourselves ! 

Take  them,  O great  Eternity ! 

Our  little  life  is  but  a gust 
That  bends  the  branches  of  thy  tree, 
And  trails  its  blossoms  in  the  dust ! 


HYMN. 

FOR  MY  BROTHER’S  ORDINATION. 


Christ  to  the  young  man  said : “ Yet  one 
thing  more  ; 

If  thou  wouldst  perfect  be, 

Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  it  to  the  poor, 
And  come  and  follow  me ! ” 

Within  this  temple  Christ  again,  unseen, 
Those  sacred  words  hath  said, 

And  his  invisible  hands  to-day  have  been 
Laid  on  a young  man’s  head. 

And  evermore  beside  him  on  his  way 
The  unseen  Christ  shall  move, 


That  he  may  lean  upon  his  arm  and  say, 

“ Dost  thou,  dear  Lord,  approve  ? ” 

Beside  him  at  the  marriage  feast  shall  be, 
To  make  the  scene  more  fair  ; 

Beside  him  in  the  dark  Gethsemane 
Of  pain  and  midnight  prayer. 

O holy  trust ! O endless  sense  of  rest ! 

Like  the  beloved  John 
To  lay  his  head  upon  the  Saviour’s  breast, 
And  thus  to  journey  on ! 


FROM  THE  GASCON  OF  JASMIN. 


Only  the  Lowland  tongue  of  Scotland  might 
Rehearse  this  little  tragedy  aright; 

Let  me  attempt  it  with  an  English  quill; 
And  take,  O Header,  for  the  deed  the  will. 


At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  height 
Where  is  perched  Castel  Cuille, 

When  the  apple,  the  plum,  and  the  almond  tree 
In  the  plain  below  were  growing  white, 
This  is  the  song  one  might  perceive 
On  a Wednesday  morn  of  St.  Joseph’s  Eve: 

“ The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 
So  fair  a bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 

Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 

So  fair  a bride  shall  pass  to-day ! ” 


212 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


This  old  Te  Deum,  rustic  rites  attending, 
Seemed  from  the  clouds  descending ; 
When  lo  ! a merry  company 
Of  rosy  village  girls,  clean  as  the  eye, 

Each  one  with  her  attendant  swain, 
Came  to  the  cliff,  all  singing  the  same  strain; 
Resembling  there,  so  near  unto  the  sky, 
Rejoicing  angels,  that  kind  heaven  has  sent 
For  their  delight  and  our  encouragement. 
Together  blending, 

And  soon  descending 
The  narrow  sweep 
Of  the  hillside  steep, 

They  wind  aslant 
Towards  Saint  Amant, 

Through  leafy  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys 
With  merry  sallies, 

Singing  their  chant : 

“ The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom 
So  fair  a bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 

Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 

So  fair  a bride  shall  pass  to-day ! ” 

It  is  Baptiste,  and  his  affianced  maiden, 

With  garlands  for  the  bridal  laden  ! 

The  sky  was  blue  ; without  one  cloud  of 
gloom, 

The  sun  of  March  was  shining  brightly, 
And  to  the  air  the  freshening  wind  gave  lightly 
Its  breathings  of  perfume. 

When  one  beholds  the  dusky  hedges  blossom, 
A rustic  bridal,  ah  ! how  sweet  it  is  ! 

To  sounds  of  joyous  melodies, 

That  touch  with  tenderness  the  trembling 
bosom, 

A band  of  maidens 
Gayly  frolicking, 

A band  of  youngsters 
Wildly  rollicking ! 

Kissing, 

Caressing, 

With  fingers  pressing, 

Till  in  the  veriest 
Madness  of  mirth,  as  they  dance, 

They  retreat  and  advance, 

Trying  whose  laugh  shall  be  loudest 
and  merriest; 


While  the  bride,  with  roguish  eyes, 
Sporting  with  them,  now  escapes  and  cries : 
“ Those  who  catch  me 
Married  verily 
This  year  shall  be ! ” 

And  all  pursue  with  eager  haste, 

And  all  attain  what  they  pursue, 

And  touch  her  pretty  apron  fresh  and  new, 
And  the  linen  kirtle  round  her  waist. 

Meanwhile,  whence  comes  it  that  among 
These  youthful  maidens  fresh  and  fair, 
So  joyous,  with  such  laughing  air, 
Baptiste  stands  sighing,  with  silent  tongue  ? 
And  yet  the  bride  is  fair  and  young ! 

Is  it  Saint  Joseph  would  say  to  us  all, 

That  love,  o’er-hasty,  precedeth  a fall  ? 

Oh  no  ! for  a maiden  frail,  I trow, 

Never  bore  so  lofty  a brow  ! 

What  lovers  ! they  give  not  a single  caress ! 
To  see  them  so  careless  and  cold  to-day, 

These  are  grand  people,  one  would  say. 
What  ails  Baptiste  ? what  grief  doth  him  op- 
press  ? 

It  is,  that,  half-way  up  the  hill, 

In  yon  cottage,  by  whose  walls 
Stand  the  cart-house  and  the  stalls, 
Dwelleth  the  blind  orphan  still, 
Daughter  of  a veteran  old ; 

And  you  must  know,  one  year  ago, 

That  Margaret,  the  young  and  tender, 
Was  the  village  pride  and  splendor, 

And  Baptiste  her  lover  bold. 

Love,  the  deceiver,  them  ensnared  ; 

For  them  the  altar  was  prepared; 

But  alas  ! the  summer’s  blight, 

The  dread  disease  that  none  can  stay, 
The  pestilence  that  walks  by  night, 
Took  the  young  bride’s  sight  away. 

All  at  the  father’s  stern  command  was  changed ; 
Their  peace  was  gone,  but  not  their  love  es- 
tranged. 

Wearied  at  home,  erelong  the  lover  fled  ; 
Returned  but  three  short  days  ago, 

The  golden  chain  they  round  him  throw, 
He  is  enticed,  and  onward  led 
To  marry  Angela,  and  yet 
Is  thinking  ever  of  Margaret. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


213 


Then  suddenly  a maiden  cried, 

“ Anna,  Theresa,  Mary,  Kate  ! 

Here  comes  the  cripple  Jane!”  And  by  a 
fountain’s  side 

A woman,  bent  and  gray  with  years, 
Under  the  mulberry  trees  appears, 

And  all  towards  her  run,  as  fleet 
As  had  they  wings  upon  their  feet. 

It  is  that  Jane,  the  cripple  Jane, 

Is  a soothsayer,  wary  and  kind. 

She  telleth  fortunes,  and  none  complain. 

She  promises  one  a village  swain, 
Another  a happy  wedding-day, 

And  the  bride  a lovely  boy  straightway. 
All  comes  to  pass  as  she  avers ; 

She  never  deceives,  she  never  errs. 


But  for  this  once  the  village  seer 
Wears  a countenance  severe, 

And  from  beneath  her  eyebrows  thin  and  white 
Her  two  eyes  flash  like  cannons  bright 
Aimed  at  the  bridegroom  in  waistcoat 
blue, 

Who,  like  a statue,  stands  in  view ; 
Changing  color,  as  well  he  might, 


When  the  beldame  wrinkled  and  gray 
Takes  the  young  bride  by  the  hand, 
And,  with  the  tip  of  her  reedy  wand 
Making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  doth  say : — 
“ Thoughtless  Angela,  beware  ! 

Lest,  when  thou  weddest  this  false  bride- 
groom, 

Thou  diggest  for  thyself  a tomb ! ” 

And  she  was  silent ; and  the  maidens  fair 
Saw  from  each  eye  escape  a swollen  tear ; 
But  on  a little  streamlet  silver-clear, 

What  are  two  drops  of  turbid  rain  ? 
Saddened  a moment,  the  bridal  train 
Resumed  the  dance  and  song  again  ; 

The  bridegroom  only  was  pale  with  fear ; — 
And  down  green  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys, 

With  merry  sallies, 

They  sang  the  refrain  : — 

“ The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 
So  fair  a bride  shall  leave  her  home ! 

Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 

So  fair  a bride  shall  pass  to-day ! ” 

II. 

And  by  suffering  worn  and  weary, 

But  beautiful  as  some  fair  angel  yet, 

Thus  lamented  Margaret, 

In  her  cottage  lone  and  dreary  : — 

“ He  has  arrived  ! arrived  at  last  ! 

Yet  Jane  has  named  him  not  these  three  days 
past ; 

Arrived ! yet  keeps  aloof  so  far  ! 

And  knows  that  of  my  night  he  is  the  star  ! 
Knows  that  long  months  I wait  alone,  be- 
nighted, 

And  count  the  moments  since  he  went  away! 
Come ! keep  the  promise  of  that  happier  day, 
That  I may  keep  the  faith  to  thee  I plighted ! 
What  joy  have  I without  thee  ? what  delight? 
Grief  wastes  my  life,  and  makes  it  misery ; 
Day  for  the  others  ever,  but  for  me 
F orever  night ! forever  night  ! 

When  he  is  gone  ’t  is  dark  ! my  soul  is  sad ! 
I suffer ! O my  God ! come,  make  me  glad. 
When  he  is  near,  no  thoughts  of  day  intrude ; 
Day  has  blue  heavens,  but  Baptiste  has  blue 
eyes ! 


214 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Within  them  shines  for  me  a heaven  of  love, 
A heaven  all  happiness,  like  that  above, 

No  more  of  grief ! no  more  of  lassitude ! 
Earth  I forget, — and  heaven,  and  all  distresses. 
When  seated  by  my  side  my  hand  he  presses ; 

But  when  alone,  remember  all ! 

Where  is  Baptiste  ? he  hears  not  when  I call ! 
A branch  of  ivy,  dying  on  the  ground, 

1 need  some  bough  to  twine  around ! 

In  pity  come  ! be  to  my  suffering  kind  ! 

True  love,  they  say,  in  grief  doth  more  abound ! 
What  then  — when  one  is  blind  ? 

“ Who  knows  ? perhaps  I am  forsaken  ! 

Ah ! woe  is  me  ! then  bear  me  to  my  grave  ! 

O God  ! what  thoughts  within  me  waken  ! 
Away ! he  will  return  ! I do  but  rave ! 

He  will  return  ! I need  not  fear  ! 

He  swore  it  by  our  Saviour  dear ; 

He  could  not  come  at  his  own  will  ; 

Is  weary,  or  perhaps  is  ill ! 

Perhaps  his  heart,  in  this  disguise, 
Prepares  for  me  some  sweet  surprise  ! 
But  some  one  comes  ! Though  blind,  my  heart 
can  see ! 

And  that  deceives  me  not ! ’t  is  he  ! ’t  is  he  ! ” 


And  the  door  ajar  is  set, 

And  jioor,  confiding  Margaret 
Rises,  with  outstretched  arms,  but  sightless 
eyes  ; 

’T  is  only  Paul,  her  brother,  who  thus  cries  : — 
“ Angela  the  bride  has  passed ! 

I saw  the  wedding  guests  go  by  ; 

Tell  me,  my  sister,  why  were  we  not  asked '? 
For  all  are  there  but  you  and  I ! " 

“ Angela  married ! and  not  send 
To  tell  her  secret  unto  me ! 

Oh,  speak  ! who  may  the  bridegroom  be  ? ” 
“ My  sister,  ’t  is  Baptiste,  thy  friend ! ” 

A cry  the  blind  girl  gave,  but  nothing  said  ; 
A milky  whiteness  spreads  upon  her  cheeks  ; 
An  icy  hand,  as  heavy  as  lead, 
Descending,  as  her  brother  speaks, 

Upon  her  heart,  that  has  ceased  to  beat, 
Suspends  awhile  its  life  and  heat. 

She  stands  beside  the  boy,  now  sore  distressed, 
A wax  Madonna  as  a peasant  dressed. 

At  length,  the  bridal  song  again 
Brings  her  back  to  her  sorrow  and  pain. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


215 


“Hark!  the  joyous  airs  are  ringing! 

Sister,  dost  thou  hear  them  singing  ? 
How  merrily  they  laugh,  and  jest ! 
Would  we  were  bidden  with  the  rest ! 

I would  don  my  hose  of  homespun  gray, 
And  my  doublet  of  linen  striped  and  gay; 
Perhaps  they  will  come  ; for  they  do  not 
wed 

Till  to-morrow  at  seven  o'clock,  it  is  said!” 
“ I know  it ! ” answered  Margaret ; 
Whom  the  vision,  with  aspect  black  as  jet, 
Mastered  again  ; and  its  hand  of  ice 
Held  her  heart  crushed,  as  in  a vice ! 

“ Paul,  be  not  sad  ! ’T  is  a holiday  ; 
To-morrow  put  on  thy  doublet  gay  ! 

But  leave  me  now  for  a while  alone.” 
Away,  with  a hop  and  a jump,  went  Paul, 
And,  as  he  whistled  along  the  hall, 
Entered  Jane,  the  crippled  crone. 

“ Holy  Virgin  ! what  dreadful  heat ! 

I am  faint,  and  weary,  and  out  of  breath ! 
But  thou  art  cold,  — art  chill  as  death  ; 
My  little  friend!  what  ails  thee,  sweet?” 
“ Nothing ! I heard  them  singing  home  the 
bride  ; 

And,  as  I listened  to  the  song, 

I thought  my  turn  would  come  erelong, 
Thou  knowest  it  is  at  Whitsuntide. 

Thy  cards  forsooth  can  never  lie, 

To  me  such  joy  they  prophesy, 

Thy  skill  shall  be  vaunted  far  and  wide 
When  they  behold  him  at  my  side. 

And  poor  Baptiste,  what  sayest  thou  ? 

It  must  seem  long  to  him;  — methinks  I 
see  him  now  ! ” 

Jane,  shuddering,  her  hand  doth  press: 

“ Thy  love  I cannot  all  approve  ; 

We  must  not  trust  too  much  to  happiness;  — 
Go,  pray  to  God,  that  thou  mayest  love  him 
less  ! ” 

“ The  more  I pray,  the  more  I love  ! 

It  is  no  sin,  for  God  is  on  my  side  ! ” 

It  was  enough ; and  Jane  no  more  replied. 

Now  to  all  hope  her  heart  is  barred  and  cold ; 
But  to  deceive  the  beldame  old 
She  takes  a sweet,  contented  air ; 

Speak  of  foul  weather  or  of  fair, 

At  every  word  the  maiden  smiles  ! 


Thus  the  beguiler  she  beguiles; 

So  that,  departing  at  the  evening’s  close, 

She  says,  “ She  may  be  saved ! she  noth- 
ing knows  ! ” 

Poor  Jane,  the  cunning  sorceress ! 

Now  that  thou  wouldst,  thou  art  no  proph- 
etess ! 

This  morning,  in  the  fulness  of  thy  heart, 
Thou  wast  so,  far  beyond  thine  art ! 

III. 

Now  rings  the  bell,  nine  times  reverberating, 
And  the  white  daybreak,  stealing  up  the  sky, 
Sees  in  two  cottages  two  maidens  waiting, 
How  differently  ! 

Queen  of  a day,  by  flatterers  caressed, 

The  one  puts  on  her  cross  and  crown, 
Decks  with  a huge  bouquet  her  breast, 
And  flaunting,  fluttering  up  and  down, 
Looks  at  herself,  and  cannot  rest. 

The  other,  blind,  within  her  little  room, 
Has  neither  crown  nor  flower’s  perfume  ; 
But  in  their  stead  for  something  gropes  apart, 
That  in  a drawer’s  recess  doth  lie, 

And,  ’neath  her  bodice  of  bright  scarlet  dye, 
Convulsive  clasps  it  to  her  heart. 

The  one,  fantastic,  light  as  air, 

’Mid  kisses  ringing, 

And  joyous  singing, 

Forgets  to  say  her  morning  prayer ! 

The  other,  with  cold  drops  upon  her  brow, 
Joins  her  two  hands,  and  kneels  upon  the 
floor, 

And  whispers,  as  her  brother  opes  the  door, 
“ O God  ! forgive  me  now  ! ” 

And  then  the  orphan,  young  and  blind, 
Conducted  by  her  brother’s  hand, 
Towards  the  church,  through  paths  un- 
scanned, 

With  tranquil  air,  her  way  doth  wind. 
Odors  of  laurel,  making  her  faint  and  pale. 
Round  her  at  times  exhale, 

And  in  the  sky  as  yet  no  sunny  ray, 

But  brumal  vapors  gray. 


216 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Near  that  castle,  fair  to  see, 

Crowded  with  sculptures  old,  in  every  part, 
Marvels  of  nature  and  of  art, 

And  proud  of  its  name  of  high  degree, 

A little  chapel,  almost  bare 

At  the  base  of  the  rock,  is  builded  there ; 

All  glorious  that  it  lifts  aloof, 

Above  each  jealous  cottage  roof, 

Its  sacred  summit,  swept  by  autumn  gales, 
And  its  blackened  steeple  high  in  air, 
Round  which  the  osprey  screams  and  sails. 

“ Paul,  lay  thy  noisy  rattle  by  ! ” 

Thus  Margaret  said.  “ Where  are  we  ? we 
ascend ! ” 

“Yes;  seest  thou  not  our  journey’s  end? 
Hearest  not  the  osprey  from  the  belfry  cry? 
The  hideous  bird,  that  brings  ill  luck,  we  know ! 
Dost  thou  remember  when  our  father  said, 
The  night  we  watched  beside  his  bed, 

‘ O daughter,  I am  weak  and  low ; 

Take  care  of  Paul  ; I feel  that  I am  dying ! ’ 
And  thou,  and  he,  and  I,  all  fell  to  crying  ? 
Then  on  the  roof  the  osprey  screamed  aloud  ; 
And  here  they  brought  our  father  in  his  shroud. 
There  is  his  grave  ; there  stands  the  cross  we 
set ; 


Why  dost  thou  clasp  me  so,  dear  Margaret? 

Come  in  ! the  bride  will  be  here  soon  : 
Thou  tremblest ! O my  God  ! thou  art  going  to 
swoon  ! ” 

She  could  no  more,  — the  blind  girl,  weak  and 
weary  ! 

A voice  seemed  crying  from  that  grave  so 
dreary, 

“ What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  daughter  ? ” — 
and  she  started, 

And  quick  recoiled,  aghast,  faint-hearted; 
But  Paul,  impatient,  urges  evermore 
Her  steps  towards  the  open  door ; 

And  when,  beneath  her  feet,  the  unhappy  maid 
Crushes  the  laurel  near  the  house  immortal, 
And  with  her  head,  as  Paul  talks  on  again, 
Touches  the  crown  of  filigrane 
Suspended  from  the  low- arched  portal, 
No  more  restrained,  no  more  afraid, 

She  walks,  as  for  a feast  arrayed, 

And  in  the  ancient  chapel’s  sombre  night 
They  both  are  lost  to  sight. 

At  length  the  bell, 

With  booming  sound, 

Sends  forth,  resounding  round, 


HENR  Y WA  DS  WOR  TIF  A ONGFEL  A 0 W 


217 


Its  hymeneal  peal  o’er  rock  and  down  the  dell. 
It  is  broad  day,  with  sunshine  and  with 
rain  ; 

And  yet  the  guests  delay  not  long, 
For  soon  arrives  the  bridal  train, 

And  with  it  brings  the  village  throng. 

In  sooth,  deceit  maketh  no  mortal  gay, 

For  lo  ! Baptiste  on  this  triumphant  day, 
Mute  as  an  idiot,  sad  as  yester-morning. 
Thinks  only  of  the  beldame’s  words  of  warning. 


And  Angela  thinks  of  her  cross,  I wis; 

To  be  a bride  is  all ! the  pretty  lisper 
Feels  her  heart  swell  to  hear  all  round  her 
whisper, 

“IIow  beautiful!  how  beautiful  she  is!” 

But  she  must  calm  that  giddy  head, 

For  already  the  Mass  is  said ; 

At  the  holy  table  stands  the  priest  ; 

The  wedding  ring  is  blessed ; Baptiste  re- 
ceives it ; 


Ere  on  the  finger  of  the  bride  he  leaves  it, 
He  must  pronounce  one  word  at  least ! 
’T  is  spoken  ; and  sudden  at  the  groomsman’s 
side 

“’Tis  he!”  a well-known  voice  has  cried. 
And  while  the  wedding  guests  all  hold  their 
breath, 

Opes  the  confessional,  and  the  blind  girl,  see ! 
28 


“Baptiste,”  she  said,  “since  thou  hast  wished 
my  death. 

As  holy  water  be  my  blood  for  thee  ! ” 

And  calmly  in  the  air  a knife  suspended ! 
Doubtless  her  guardian  angel  near  attended. 
For  anguish  did  its  work  so  well, 

That,  ere  the  fatal  stroke  descended. 
Lifeless  she  fell ! 


218 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


At  eve,  instead  of  bridal  verse, 

The  De  Profundis  filled  the  air  ; 
Decked  with  flowers  a simple  hearse 
To  the  churchyard  forth  they  bear  ; 
Village  girls  in  robes  of  snow 
Follow,  weeping  as  they  go  ; 


Nowhere  was  a smile  that  day, 

No,  ah  no!  for  each  one  seemed  to  say:  — 

“ The  road  should  mourn  and  be  veiled  in  gloom, 
So  fair  a corpse  shall  leave  its  home  ! 

Should  mourn  and  should  weep,  ah,  well-away  ! 
So  fair  a corpse  shall  pass  to-day ! ” 


FROM  THE  NOEI  BOUEGUIGNON 
DE  GUI  BAROZAI. 

I hear  along  our  street 
Pass  the  minstrel  throngs  ; 

Hark ! they  play  so  sweet, 

On  their  hautboys,  Christmas  songs ! 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

In  December  ring 
Every  day  the  chimes ; 

Loud  the  gleemen  sing 
In  the  streets  their  merry  rhymes. 
Let  ns  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Shepherds  at  the  grange, 

Where  the  Babe  was  born, 

Sang,  with  many  a change, 
Christmas  carols  until  morn. 

Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 


These  good  people  sang 
Songs  devout  and  sweet ; 

While  the  rafters  rang, 

There  they  stood  with  freezing  feet. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Nuns  in  frigid  cells 
At  this  holy  tide, 

For  want  of  something  else, 
Christmas  songs  at  times  have  tried. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 


Washerwomen  old, 

To  the  sound  they  beat, 
Sing  by  rivers  cold, 

With  uncovered  heads  and  feet. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 


Who  by  the  fireside  stands 
Stamps  his  feet  and  sings ; 
But  he  who  blows  his  hands 
Not  so  gay  a carol  brings. 

Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire ! 


Looked  up  from  her  mat  of  rushes.’ 


ik  i win 

« rat 

rwr""  c?  e 


".Rt!5 


INTRODUCTION. 


Should  you  ask  me,  whence  these  stories? 
Whence  these  legends  and  traditions, 

With  the  odors  of  the  forest, 

With  the  dew  and  damp  of  meadows, 

With  the  curling  smoke  of  wigwams, 

With  the  rushing  of  great  rivers, 

With  their  frequent  repetitions, 

And  their  wild  reverberations, 

As  of  thunder  in  the  mountains  ? 

I should  answer,  I should  tell  you, 

“ From  the  forests  and  the  prairies, 

From  the  great  lakes  of  the  Northland, 
From  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 

From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

From  the  mountains,  moors,  and  fenlands, 
Where  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 

Feeds  among  the  reeds  and  rushes. 

I repeat  them  as  I heard  them 
From  the  lips  of  Nawadaha, 

The  musician,  the  sweet  singer.” 

Should  you  ask  where  Nawadaha 
Found  these  songs,  so  wild  and  wayward, 
Found  these  legends  and  traditions, 

I should  answer,  I should  tell  you, 

“ In  the  bird’s-nests  of  the  forest, 

In  the  lodges  of  the  beaver, 

In  the  hoof-prints  of  the  bison, 

In  the  eyry  of  the  eagle ! 

“ All  the  wild-fowl  sang  them  to  him, 

In  the  moorlands  and  the  fen-lands, 

In  the  melancholy  marshes  ; 

Chetowaik,  the  plover,  sang  them, 

Mahng,  the  loon,  the  wild-goose,  Wawa, 
The  blue  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 

And  the  grouse,  the  Mushkodasa ! ” 


If  still  further  you  should  ask  me, 
Saying,  “ Who  was  Nawadaha  ? 

Tell  us  of  this  Nawadaha,” 

I should  answer  your  inquiries 
Straightway  in  such  words  as  follow. 

“In  the  Vale  of  Tawasentha, 

In  the  green  and  silent  valley, 

By  the  pleasant  water-courses, 

Dwelt  the  singer  Nawadaha. 

Round  about  the  Indian  village 
Spread  the  meadows  and  the  corn-fields, 
And  beyond  them  stood  the  forest, 

Stood  the  groves  of  singing  pine-trees, 
Green  in  Summer,  white  in  Winter, 

Ever  sighing,  ever  singing. 

“ And  the  pleasant  water-courses, 

You  could  trace  them  through  the  valley, 
By  the  rushing  in  the  Spring-time, 

By  the  alders  in  the  Summer, 

By  the  white  fog  in  the  Autumn, 

By  the  black  line  in  the  Winter  ; 

And  beside  them  dwelt  the  singer, 

In  the  vale  of  Tawasentha, 

In  the  green  and  silent  valley. 

“ There  he  sang  of  Hiawatha, 

Sang  the  Song  of  Hiawatha, 

Sang  his  wondrous  birth  and  being, 

How  he  prayed  and  how  he  fasted, 

How  he  lived,  and  toiled,  and  suffered, 
That  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper, 
That  he  might  advance  his  people  ! ” 

Ye  who  love  the  haunts  of  Nature, 

Love  the  sunshine  of  the  meadow, 

Love  the  shadow  of  the  forest, 

Love  the  wind  among  the  branches, 


555 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


And  the  rain-shower  and  the  snow-storm, 
And  the  rushing  of  great  rivers 
Through  their  palisades  of  pine-trees, 

And  the  thunder  in  the  mountains, 

Whose  innumerable  echoes 

Flap  like  eagles  in  their  eyries ; — 

Listen  to  these  wild  traditions, 

To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye  who  love  a nation’s  legends, 

Love  the  ballads  of  a people, 

T1  lat  like  voices  from  afar  off 
Call  to  us  to  pause  and  listen, 

Speak  in  tones  so  plain  and  childlike, 
Scarcely  can  the  ear  distinguish 
Whether  they  are  sung  or  spoken ; — 
Listen  to  this  Indian  Legend, 

To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye  whose  hearts  are  fresh  and  simple, 
Who  have  faith  in  God  and  Nature, 

W1  10  believe,  that  in  all  ages 
Every  human  heart  is  human, 

That  in  even  savage  bosoms 

There  are  longings,  yearnings,  strivings 


For  the  good  they  comprehend  not, 

That  the  feeble  hands  and  helpless, 
Groping  blindly  in  the  darkness, 

Touch  God’s  right  hand  in  that  dark- 
ness 

And  are  lifted  up  and  strengthened ; — 
Listen  to  this  simple  story, 

To  this  song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye,  who  sometimes,  in  your  rambles 
Through  the  green  lanes  of  the  country, 
Where  the  tangled  barberry-bushes 
Hang  their  tufts  of  crimson  berries 
Over  stone  walls  gray  with  mosses, 

Pause  by  some  neglected  graveyard. 

For  a while  to  muse,  and  ponder 
On  a half-effaced  inscription, 

Written  with  little  skill  of  song-craft, 
Homely  phrases,  but  each  letter 
Full  of  hope  and  yet  of  heart-break, 

Full  of  all  the  tender  pathos 
Of  the  Here  and  the  Hereafter  ; — 

Stay  and  read  this  rude  inscription, 

Read  this  Song  of  Hiawatha! 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 

I. 

THE  PEACE-PIPE. 


On  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 

On  the  great  Red  Pipe-stone  Quarry, 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 

He  the  Master  of  Life,  descending, 

On  the  red  crags  of  the  quarry 
Stood  erect,  and  called  the  nations, 
Called  the  tribes  of  men  together. 

From  his  footprints  flowed  a river, 
Leaped  into  the  light  of  morning, 

O’er  the  precipice  plunging  downward 
Gleamed  the  Ishkoodah,  the  comet. 
And  the  Spirit,  stooping  earthward, 
With  his  linger  on  the  meadow 
Traced  a winding  pathway  for  it, 
Saying  to  it,  “ Run  in  this  way ! ” 

From  the  red  stone  of  the  quarry 
With  his  hand  he  broke  a fragment, 
Moulded  it  into  a pipe-head, 

Shaped  and  fashioned  it  with  figures ; 
From  the  margin  of  the  river 


Took  a long  reed  for  a pipe-stem. 
With  its  dark  green  leaves  upon  it ; 
Filled  the  pipe  with  bark  of  willow, 
With  the  bark  of  the  red  willow ; 
Breathed  upon  the  neighboring  forest, 
Made  its  great  boughs  chafe  together, 
Till  in  flame  they  burst  and  kindled  ; 
And  erect  upon  the  mountains, 

Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 

Smoked  the  calnmet,  the  Peace-Pipe, 
As  a signal  to  the  nations. 

And  the  smoke  rose  slowly,  slowly, 
Through  the  tranquil  air  of  morning. 
First  a single  line  of  darkness, 

Then  a denser,  bluer  vapor, 

Then  a snow-white  cloud  unfolding, 
Like  the  tree-tops  of  the  forest, 

Ever  rising,  rising,  rising, 

Till  it  touched  the  top  of  heaven, 

Till  it  broke  against  the  heaven, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


223 


And  rolled  outward  all  around  it. 

From  the  Vale  of  Tawasentha, 
From  the  Valley  of  Wyoming, 

From  the  groves  of  Tuscaloosa, 
From  the  far-off  Rocky  Mountains, 
From  the  Northern  lakes  and  rivers 
All  the  tribes  beheld  the  signal, 

Saw  the  distant  smoke  ascending, 
The  Pukwana  of  the  Peace-Pipe. 

And  the  Prophets  of  the  nations 
Said  : “ Behold  it,  the  Pukwana  ! 

By  this  signal  from  afar  off, 

Bending  like  a wand  of  willow, 
Waving  like  a hand  that  beckons, 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 

Calls  the  tribes  of  men  together, 
Calls  the  warriors  to  his  council ! ” 

Down  the  rivers,  o’er  the  prairies, 
Came  the  warriors  of  the  nations, 
Came  the  Delawares  and  Mohawks, 
Came  the  Choctaws  and  Camanclies, 
Came  the  Slioshonies  and  Blackfeet, 


Came  the  Pawnees  and  Omahas, 

Came  the  Mandans  and  Dacotahs, 

Came  the  Hurons  and  Q jib  ways, 

All  the  warriors  drawn  together 
By  the  signal  of  the  Peace-Pipe, 

To  the  mountains  of  the  Prairie, 

To  the  great  Red  Pipe-stone  Quarry. 

And  they  stood  there  on  the  meadow, 
With  their  weapons  and  their  war-gear, 
Painted  like  the  leaves  of  Autumn, 
Painted  like  the  sky  of  morning, 

Wildly  glaring  at  each  other ; 

In  their  faces  stern  defiance, 

In  their  hearts  the  feuds  of  ages, 

The  hereditary  hatred, 

The  ancestral  thirst  of  vengeance. 

Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 

The  creator  of  the  nations, 

Looked  upon  them  with  compassion, 
With  paternal  love  and  pity ; 

Looked  upon  their  wrath  and  wrangling 
But  as  quarrels  among  children, 


224 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


But  as  feuds  and  fights  of  children ! 

Over  them  lie  stretched  his  right  hand, 
To  subdue  their  stubborn  natures, 

To  allay  their  thirst  and  fever, 

By  the  shadow  of  his  right  hand ; 

Sjjake  to  them  with  voice  majestic 
As  the  sound  of  far-off  waters, 

Falling  into  deep  abysses, 

Warning,  chiding,  spake  in  this  wise:  — 

“ O my  children  ! my  poor  children  ! 
Listen  to  the  words  of  wisdom, 

Listen  to  the  words  of  warning, 

From  the  lips  of  the  Great  Spirit, 

From  the  Master  of  Life,  who  made  you. 

“ I have  given  you  lands  to  hunt  in, 

I have  given  you  streams  to  fish  in, 

I have  given  you  bear  and  bison, 

I have  given  you  roe  and  reindeer, 

I have  given  you  brant  and  beaver, 

Filled  the  marshes  full  of  wild-fowl, 

Filled  the  rivers  full  of  fishes  ; 

Why  then  are  you  not  contented? 

Why  then  will  you  hunt  each  other? 

“ I am  weary  of  your  quarrels, 

Weary  of  your  wars  and  bloodshed, 

Weary  of  your  prayers  for  vengeance, 

Of  your  wranglings  and  dissensions  ; 

All  your  strength  is  in  your  union, 

All  your  danger  is  in  discord  ; 

Therefore  be  at  peace  henceforward, 

And  as  brothers  live  together. 

“ I will  send  a Prophet  to  you, 

A Deliverer  of  the  nations, 

Who  shall  guide  you  and  shall  teach  you, 
Who  shall  toil  and  suffer  with  you. 

If  you  listen  to  his  counsels, 

You  will  multiply  and  prosper  ; 

If  his  warnings  pass  unheeded, 

You  will  fade  away  and  perish  ! , 

“ Bathe  now  in  the  stream  before  you, 


Wash  the  war-paint  from  your  faces, 

Wash  the  blood-stains  from  your  fingers, 
Bury  your  war-clubs  and  your  weapons, 
Break  the  red  stone  from  this  quarry, 
Mould  and  make  it  into  Peace-Pipes, 

Take  the  reeds  that  grow  beside  you, 

Deck  them  with  your  brightest  feathers, 
Smoke  the  calumet  together, 

And  as  brothers  live  henceforward ! ” 

Then  upon  the  ground  the  warriors 
Threw  their  cloaks  and  shirts  of  deer- 
skin, 

Threw  their  weapons  and  their  war-gear, 
Leaped  into  the  rushing  river, 

Washed  the  war-paint  from  their  faces. 
Clear  above  them  flowed  the  water, 

Clear  and  limpid  from  the  footprints 
Of  the  Master  of  Life  descending; 

Dark  below  them  flowed  the  water, 

Soiled  and  stained  with  streaks  of  crimson, 
As  if  blood  were  mingled  with  it ! 

From  the  river  came  the  warriors, 
Cleaned  and  Avashed  from  all  their  war-paint ; 
On  the  banks  their  clubs  they  buried, 
Buried  all  their  Avarlike  weapons. 

Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 

The  Great  Sjjirit,  the  creator, 

Smiled  upon  his  helpless  children  ! 

And  in  silence  all  the  warriors 
Broke  the  red  stone  of  the  quarry, 
Smoothed  and  formed  it  into  Peace-Pipes, 
Broke  the  long  reeds  by  the  river, 

Decked  them  Avitli  their  brightest  feathers, 
And  departed  each  one  homeward, 

While  the  Master  of  Life,  ascending, 
Through  the  opening  of  cloud-curtains, 
Through  the  doorways  of  the  heaven, 
Vanished  from  before  their  faces, 

In  the  smoke  that  rolled  around  him, 

The  Pukwana  of  the  Peace-Pipe ! 


•HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW . 


9 Of, 


II. 

THE  FOUR  WINDS. 


“ Honor  be  to  Mudjekeewis  ! ” 

Cried  the  warriors,  cried  the  old  men. 
When  he  came  in  triumph  homeward 
With  the  sacred  Belt  of  Wampum, 
From  the  regions  of  the  North-Wind, 
From  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 

From  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit. 

He  had  stolen  the  Belt  of  Wampum 
From  the  neck  of  Mishe-Mokwa, 

From  the  great  Bear  of  the  mountains, 
From  the  terror  of  the  nations, 

As  he  lay  asleep  and  cumbrous 
On  the  summit  of  the  mountains, 

Like  a rock  with  mosses  on  it, 

Spotted  brown  and  gray  with  mosses. 

Silently  he  stole  upon  him 
Till  the  red  nails  of  the  monster 
Almost  touched  him,  almost  scared  him, 
Till  the  hot  breath  of  his  nostrils 
Warmed  the  hands  of  Mudjekeewis, 

As  he  drew  the  Belt  of  Wampum 


Over  the  round  ears,  that  heard  not, 
Over  the  small  eyes,  that  saw  not, 
Over  the  long  nose  and  nostrils, 

The  black  inutile  of  the  nostrils, 

Out  of  which  the  heavy  breathing 
Warmed  the  hands  of  Mudjekeewis. 

Then  he  swung  aloft  his  war-club, 
Shouted  loud  and  long  his  war-cry, 
Smote  the  mighty  Mishe-Mokwa 
In  the  middle  of  the  forehead, 

Right  between  the  eyes  he  smote  him. 

With  the  heavy  blow  bewildered, 
Rose  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains ; 
But  his  knees  beneath  him  trembled, 
And  he  whimpered  like  a woman, 

As  he  reeled  and  staggered  forward, 

As  he  sat  upon  his  haunches; 

And  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis, 

Standing  fearlessly  before  him, 

Taunted  him  in  loud  derision, 

Spake  disdainfully  in  this  wise : — 


226 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


“ Hark  you,  Bear  ! you  are  a coward, 
And  no  Brave,  as  you  pretended  ; 

Else  you  would  not  cry  and  whimper 
Like  a miserable  woman ! 

Bear ! you  know  our  tribes  are  hostile, 
Long  have  been  at  war  together ; 

Now  you  find  that  we  are  strongest, 
You  go  sneaking  in  the  forest, 

You  go  hiding  in  the  mountains! 

Had  you  conquered  me  in  battle 
Not  a groan  would  I have  uttered; 

But  you,  Bear  ! sit  here  and  whimper, 
And  disgrace  your  tribe  by  crying, 

Like  a wretched  Shaugodaya, 

Like  a cowardly  old  woman  ! ” 

Then  again  he  raised  his  war-club, 
Smote  again  the  Mishe-Mokwa 
In  the  middle  of  his  forehead. 

Broke  his  skull,  as  ice  is  broken 
When  one  goes  to  fish  in  Winter. 

Thus  was  slain  the  Mishe-Mokwa, 

He  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains, 
He  the  terror  of  the  nations. 

“ Honor  be  to  Mudjekeewis  ! ” 

With  a shout  exclaimed  the  people, 

“ Honor  be  to  Mudjekeewis  ! 

Henceforth  he  shall  be  the  West-Wind, 
And  hereafter  and  forever 
Shall  he  hold  supreme  dominion 
Over  all  the  winds  of  heaven. 

Call  him  no  more  Mudjekeewis, 

Call  him  Kabeyun,  the  West-Wind!” 
Thus  was  Mudjekeewis  chosen 
Father  of  the  Winds  of  Heaven. 

For  himself  he  kept  the  West-Wind, 
Gave  the  others  to  his  children  ; 

Unto  Wabun  gave  the  East-Wind, 

Gave  the  South  to  Shawondasee, 

And  the  North-Wind,  wild  and  cruel, 

To  the  fierce  Kabibonokka. 

Young  and  beautiful  was  Wabun  ; 

He  it  was  who  brought  the  morning, 
He  it  was  whose  silver  arrows 
Chased  the  dark  o’er  hill  and  valley; 
He  it  was  whose  cheeks  were  painted 
With  the  brightest  streaks  of  crimson, 
And  whose  voice  awoke  the  village, 
Called  the  deer,  and  called  the  hunter. 

Lonely  in  the  sky  Avas  Wabun  ; 
Though  the  birds  sang  gayly  to  him, 


Though  the  wild-flowers  of  the  meadoAV 
Filled  the  air  with  odors  for  him  ; 
Though  the  forests  and  the  rivers 
Sang  and  shouted  at  his  coming, 

Still  his  heart  was  sad  within  him. 

For  he  was  alone  in  heaven. 

But  one  morning,  gazing  earthward, 
While  the  village  still  was  sleeping, 
And  the  fog  lay  on  the  river, 

Like  a ghost,  that  goes  at  sunrise, 

He  beheld  a maiden  walking 
All  alone  upon  a meadoAV, 

Gathering  Avater-flags  and  rushes 
By  a river  in  the  meadoAV. 

Every  morning,  gazing  earthward, 
Still  the  first  thing  he  beheld  there 
Was  her  blue  eyes  looking  at  him, 

Two  blue  lakes  among  the  rushes. 

And  he  loved  the  lonely  maiden, 

W1  10  thus  AAraited  for  his  coining ; 

For  they  both  Avere  solitary, 

She  on  earth  and  he  in  heaven. 

And  he  Avooed  her  with  caresses. 
Wooed  her  Avith  his  smile  of  sunshine, 
With  his  flattering  words  he  Avooed  her. 
With  his  sighing  and  his  singing, 
Gentlest  whispers  in  the  branches, 
Softest  music,  SAveetest  odors, 

Till  he  dreAV  her  to  his  bosom, 

Folded  in  his  robes  of  crimson, 

Till  into  a star  he  changed  her, 
Trembling  still  upon  his  bosom  ; 

And  forever  in  the  heavens 
They  are  seen  together  walking, 

Wabun  and  the  Wabun-Annung, 

Wabun  and  the  Star  of  morning. 

But  the  fierce  Kabibonokka 
Had  his  dwelling  among  icebergs, 

In  the  everlasting  snow-drifts, 

In  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 

In  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit. 

He  it  Avas  Avhose  hand  in  Autumn 
Painted  all  the  trees  with  scarlet, 
Stained  the  leaves  with  red  and  yellow 
He  it  Avas  who  sent  the  snoAV-flakes, 
Sifting,  hissing  through  the  forest, 

Froze  the  ponds,  the  lakes,  the  rivers, 
Drove  the  loon  and  sea-gull  southward, 
Drove  the  cormorant  and  curlew 
To  their  nests  of  sedge  and  sea-tang 


HENR  Y W.A  DS  WOR  TH  L ONGFRL  J.  0 W. 


227 


In  the  realms  of  Shawondasee. 

Once  the  fierce  Kabibonokka 
Issued  from  his  lodge  of  snow-drifts, 

From  his  home  among  the  icebergs, 

And  his  hair,  with  snow  besprinkled, 
Streamed  behind  him  like  a river, 

Like  a black  and  wintry  river, 

As  he  howled  and  hurried  southward, 
Over  frozen  lakes  and  moorlands. 

There  among  the  reeds  and  rushes 
Found  lie  Shingebis,  the  diver, 

Trailing  strings  of  fish  behind  him, 

O’er  the  frozen  fens  and  moorlands, 
Lingering  still  among  the  moorlands, 
Though  his  tribe  had  long  departed 
To  the  land  of  Shawondasee. 

Cried  the  fierce  Kabibonokka, 

“ Who  is  this  that  dares  to  brave  me  ? 
Dares  to  stay  in  my  dominions, 

When  the  Wawa  has  departed, 

When  the  wild-goose  has  gone  southward, 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 

Long  ago  departed  southward? 

I will  go  into  his  wigwam, 

I will  put  his  smouldering  fire  out ! ” 


And  at  night  Kabibonokka 
To  the  lodge  came  wild  and  wailing, 
Heaped  the  snow  in  drifts  about  it. 
Shouted  down  into  the  smoke-flue, 
Shook  the  lodge-poles  in  his  fury, 
Flapped  the  curtain  of  the  door-way. 
Shingebis,  the  diver,  feared  not, 
Shingebis,  the  diver,  cared  not ; 

Four  great  logs  had  he  for  firewood, 
One  for  each  moon  of  the  winter, 

And  for  food  the  fishes  served  him. 

By  his  blazing  fire  he  sat  there, 

Warm  and  merry,  eating,  laughing. 
Singing,  “ O Kabibonokka, 

You  are  but  my  fellow-mortal  ! ” 

Then  Kabibonokka  entered, 

And  though  Shingebis,  the  diver, 

Felt  his  presence  by  the  coldness, 

Felt  his  icy  breath  upon  him, 

Still  he  did  not  cease  his  singing, 

Still  he  did  not  leave  his  laughing. 
Only  turned  the  log  a little, 

Only  made  the  fire  burn  brighter, 

Made  the  sparks  fly  up  the  smoke-flue. 

From  Ivabibonokka’s  forehead. 


228 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


From  his  snow-besprinkled  tresses, 

Drops  of  sweat  fell  fast  and  heavy, 

Making  dints  upon  the  ashes, 

As  along  the  eaves  of  lodges, 

As  from  drooping  boughs  of  hemlock, 
Drips  the  melting  snow  in  spring-time, 

Mai  ring  hollows  in  the  snow-drifts. 

Till  at  last  he  rose  defeated, 

Could  not  bear  the  heat  and  laughter, 
Could  not  bear  the  merry  singing. 

But  rushed  headlong  through  the  doorway. 
Stamped  upon  the  crusted  snow-drifts, 
Stamped  upon  the  lakes  and  rivers, 

Made  the  snow  upon  them  harder, 

Made  the  ice  upon  them  thicker, 
Challenged  Shingebis,  the  diver. 

To  come  forth  and  wrestle  with  him, 

To  come  forth  and  wrestle  naked 
On  the  frozen  fens  and  moorlands. 

Forth  went  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Wrestled  all  night  with  the  North-Wind, 
Wrestled  naked  on  the  moorlands 
With  the  fierce  Ivabibonokka, 

Till  his  panting  breath  grew  fainter, 

Till  his  frozen  grasp  grew  feebler, 

Till  he  reeled  and  staggered  backward, 

And  retreated,  baffled,  beaten, 

To  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 

To  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit, 

Hearing  still  the  gusty  laughter, 

Hearing  Shingebis,  the  diver, 

Singing,  “ O Kabibonokka, 

You  are  but  my  fellow-mortal!” 

Shawondasee,  fat  and  lazy, 

Had  his  dwelling  far  to  southward. 

In  tl  le  drowsy,  dreamy  sunshine, 

In  the  never-ending  Summer. 

He  it  was  who  sent  the  wood-birds, 

Sent  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 

Sent  the  blue-bird,  the  Owaissa, 

Sent  the  Shawshaw,  sent  the  swallow, 

Sent  the  wild-goose,  Wawa,  northward, 
Sent  the  melons  and  tobacco, 

And  the  grapes  in  purple  clusters. 

From  his  pipe  the  smoke  ascending 
Filled  the  sky  with  haze  and  vapor, 

Filled  the  air  with  dreamy  softness, 

Gave  a twinkle  to  the  water, 

Touched  the  rugged  hills  with  smoothness, 
Brought  the  tender  Indian  Summer 


To  the  melancholy  north-land, 

In  the  dreary  Moon  of  Snow-shoes. 

Listless,  careless  Shawondasee ! 

In  his  life  he  had  one  shadow, 

In  his  heart  one  sorrow  had  he. 

Once,  as  he  was  gazing  northward, 

Far  away  upon  a prairie 
He  beheld  a maiden  standing, 

Saw  a tall  and  slender  maiden 
All  alone  upon  a prairie  ; 

Brightest  green  were  all  her  garments, 
And  her  hair  was  like  the  sunshine. 

Day  by  day  he  gazed  upon  her, 

Day  by  day  he  sighed  with  passion, 

Day  by  day  his  heart  within  him 
Grew  more  hot  with  love  and  longing 
For  the  maid  with  yellow  tresses. 

But  he  was  too  fat  and  lazy 
To  bestir  himself  and  woo  her. 

Yes,  too  indolent  and  easy 
To  pursue  her  and  persuade  her ; 

So  he  only  gazed  upon  her, 

Only  sat  and  sighed  with  passion 
For  the  maiden  of  the  prairie. 

Till  one  morning,  looking  northward, 
He  beheld  her  yellow  tresses 
Changed  and  covered  o’er  with  whiteness, 
Covered  as  with  whitest  snow-flakes. 

“Ah!  my  brother  from  the  North-land, 
From  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 

From  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit ! 

You  have  stolen  the  maiden  from  me, 

You  have  laid  your  hand  upon  her. 

You  have  wooed  and  won  my  maiden, 
With  your  stories  of  the  North-land  ! 

Thus  the  wretched  Shawondasee 
Breathed  into  the  air  his  sorrow  ; 

And  the  South-Wind  o'er  the  prairie 
Wandered  warm  with  sighs  of  passion, 
With  the  sighs  of  Shawondasee, 

Till  the  air  seemed  full  of  snow-flakes, 
Full  of  thistle-down  the  prairie, 

And  the  maid  with  hair  like  sunshine 
Vanished  from  his  sight  forever  ; 

Never  more  did  Shawondasee 
See  the  maid  with  yellow  tresses! 

Poor,  deluded  Shawondasee ! 

’T  was  no  woman  that  you  gazed  at, 

’T  was  no  maiden  that  you  sighed  for, 

’T  was  the  prairie  dandelion 


MENU  Y WA  DS  WORTH  L ONGFELL  0 W. 


229 


That  through  all  the  dreamy  Summer 
You  had  gazed  at  with  such  longing, 
You  had  sighed  for  with  such  passion, 
And  had  puffed  away  forever, 

Blown  into  the  air  with  sighing. 

All!  deluded  Shawondasee  ! 


Thus  the  Four  Winds  were  divided  ; 
Thus  the  sons  of  Mudjekeewis 
Had  their  stations  in  the  heavens, 

At  the  corners  of  the  heavens; 

For  himself  the  West-Wind  only 
Kept  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis. 


III. 

HIAWATHA’S  CHILDHOOD. 


Downward  through  the  evening  twilight, 
In  the  days  that  are  forgotten, 

In  the  unremembered  ages, 

From  the  full  moon  fell  Nokomis, 

Fell  the  beautiful  Nokomis, 

She  a wife,  but  not  a mother. 

She  was  sporting  with  her  women 
Swinging  in  a swing  of  grape-vines, 

When  her  rival  the  rejected, 

Full  of  jealousy  and  hatred, 

Cut  the  leafy  swing  asunder, 

Cut  in  twain  the  twisted  grape-vines, 

And  Nokomis  fell  affrighted 
Downward  through  the  evening  twilight, 

( )n  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 

On  the  prairie  full  of  blossoms. 

“ See  ! a star  falls  ! ” said  the  people  ; 

“ From  the  sky  a star  is  falling  ! ” 

There  among  the  ferns  and  mosses, 
There  among  the  prairie  lilies, 

On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 

In  the  moonlight  and  the  starlight, 

Fair  Nokomis  bore  a daughter. 

And  she  called  her  name  Wenonah, 

As  the  first-born  of  her  daughters. 

And  the  daughter  of  Nokomis 
Grew  up  like  the  prairie  lilies, 

Grew  a tall  and  slender  maiden, 

With  the  beauty  of  the  moonlight, 

With  the  beauty  of  the  starlight. 

And  Nokomis  warned  her  often. 

Saying  oft,  and  oft  repeating, 

“ Oh,  beware  of  Mudjekeewis, 

Of  the  West-Wind,  Mudjekeewis; 

Listen  not  to  what  he  tells  you  ; 

Lie  not  down  upon  the  meadow. 

Stoop  not  down  among  the  lilies, 

Lest  the  West-Wind  come  and  harm  you!” 


But  she  heeded  not  the  warning, 
Heeded  not  those  words  of  wisdom, 

And  the  West-Wind  came  at  evening, 
Walking  lightly  o'er  the  prairie, 
Whispering  to  the  leaves  and  blossoms, 
Bending  low  the  flowers  and  grasses, 
Found  the  beautiful  Wenonah, 

Lying  there  among  the  lilies, 

Wooed  her  with  his  words  of  sweetness, 
Wooed  her  with  his  soft  caresses, 
rI'ill  she  bore  a son  in  sorrow, 

Bore  a son  of  love  and  sorrow. 

Thus  was  born  my  Hiawatha, 

Thus  was  born  the  child  of  wonder; 

But  the  daughter  of  Nokomis, 
Hiawatha’s  gentle  mother, 

In  her  anguish  died  deserted 

By  the  West-Wind,  false  and  faithless, 

By  the  heartless  Mudjekeewis. 

For  her  daughter  long  and  loudly 
Wailed  and  wept  the  sad  Nokomis  ; 

“ Oh  that  I were  dead  ! " she  murmured, 
“ Oh  that  I were  dead,  as  thou  art ! 

No  more  work,  and  no  more  weeping, 
Wahonowin  ! Wahonowin  ! ” 

By  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gurnee, 

By  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water, 

Stood  the  wigwam  of  Nokomis, 
Daughter  of  the  Moon,  Nokomis. 

Dark  behind  it  rose  the  forest, 

Rose  the  black  and  gloomy  pine-trees, 
Rose  the  firs  with  cones  upon  them  ; 
Bright  before  it  beat  the  water, 

Beat  the  clear  and  sunny  water, 

Beat  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water. 

There  the  wrinkled  old  Nokomis 
Nursed  the  little  Hiawatha, 

Rocked  him  in  his  linden  cradle, 


230 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Bedded  soft  in  moss  and  rushes, 

Safely  bound  with  reindeer  sinews  ; 

Stilled  his  fretful  wail  by  saying, 

“ Hush  ! the  Naked  Bear  will  hear  thee  ! ” 
Lulled  him  into  slumber,  singing, 

“ Ewa-yea  ! my  little  owlet ! 

Who  is  this,  that  lights  the  wigwam  ? 
With  his  great  eyes  lights  the  wigwam? 
Ewa-yea ! my  little  owlet  ! ” 

Many  things  Nokomis  taught  him 
Of  the  stars  that  shine  in  heaven  , 

Showed  him  Ishkoodali,  the  comet, 
Ishkoodah,  with  fiery  tresses  ; 

Showed  the  Death-Dance  of  the  spirits, 
War  riors  with  their  plumes  and  war-clubs, 
Flaring  far  away  to  northward 
In  the  frosty  nights  of  Winter  ; 

Showed  the  broad  white  road  in  heaven, 
Pathway  of  the  ghosts,  the  shadows, 
Running  straight  across  the  heavens, 
Crowded  with  the  ghosts,  the  shadows. 

At  the  door  on  summer  evenings 
Sat  the  little  Hiawatha; 

Heard  the  whispering  of  the  pine-trees, 
Heard  the  lapping  of  the  waters, 

Sounds  of  music,  words  of  wonder ; 

“ Minne-wawa ! ” said  the  pine-trees, 

“ Mudway-aushka ! ” said  the  water. 

Saw  the  fire-fly,  Wah-wah-taysee, 

Flitting  through  the  dusk  of  evening, 


With  the  twinkle  of  its  candle 
Lighting  up  the  brakes  and  bushes, 

And  he  sang  the  song  of  children, 

Sang  the  song  Nokomis  taught  him  : 
“Wah-wah-taysee,  little  fire-fly, 

Little  flitting,  white-fire  insect, 

Little,  dancing,  white-fire  creature, 

Light  me  with  your  little  candle, 

Ere  upon  my  bed  I lay  me, 

Ere  in  sleep  1 close  my  eyelids ! ” 

Saw  the  moon  rise  from  the  water 
Rippling,  rounding  from  the  water, 

Saw  the  flecks  and  shadows  on  it, 
Whispered,  “What  is  that,  Nokomis?” 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered : 

“ Once  a warrior,  very  angry, 

Seized  his  grandmother,  and  threw  her 
Up  into  the  sky  at  midnight ; 

Right  against  the  moon  he  threw  her  ; 
'T  is  her  body  that  you  see  there.” 

Saw  the  rainbow  in  the  heaven, 

In  the  eastern  skv,  the  rainbow, 
Whispered,  “What  is  that,  Nokomis?” 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered : 

“ ‘T  is  the  heaven  of  flowers  you  see  there 
All  the  wild-flowers  of  the  forest, 

All  the  lilies  of  the  prairie, 

When  on  earth  they  fade  and  perish, 
Blossom  in  that  heaven  above  us.” 

W1  len  he  heard  the  owls  at  midnight, 


I1KNR  Y IV A DSWO R TH  L ONGFEL  L 0 W. 


231 


Hooting,  laughing  in  the  forest, 

“What  is  that?”  lie  cried  in  terror 
“What  is  that?”  lie  said,  “Nokomis?” 

And  the  good  Nokomis  answered : 

“ That  is  but  the  owl  and  owlet,  . 

Talking  in  their  native  language, 

Talking,  scolding  at  each  other.” 

Then  the  little  Hiawatha 
Learned  of  every  bird  its  language, 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 
How  they  built  their  nests  in  Summer, 
Where  they  hid  themselves  in  Winter, 
Talked  with  them  whene’er  lie  met  them, 
Called  them  “ Hiawatha’s  chickens.” 

Of  all  beasts  he  learned  the  language, 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 
How  the  beavers  built  their  lodges, 

Where  the  squirrels  hid  their  acorns, 

How  the  reindeer  ran  so  swiftly, 

Why  the  rabbit  was  so  timid, 

Talked  with  them  whene’er  he  met  them. 
Called  them  “Hiawatha’s  Brothers.” 

Then  Iagoo,  the  great  boaster, 

He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 

He  the  traveller  and  the  talker, 

He  the  friend  of  old  Nokomis, 

Made  a bow  for  Hiawatha ; 

From  a branch  of  ash  he  made  it, 

From  an  oak-bough  made  the  arrows, 
Tipped  with  Hint,  and  winged  with  feathers, 
And  the  cord  he  made  of  deer-skin. 

Then  he  said  to  Hiawatha: 

“ Go,  my  son,  into  the  forest, 

Where  the  red  deer  herd  together, 

Kill  for  us  a famous  roebuck, 

Kill  for  us  a deer  with  antlers ! ” 

Forth  into  the  forest  straightway 
All  alone  walked  Hiawatha 
Proudly,  with  his  bow  and  arrows ; 

And  the  birds  sang  round  him,  o'er  him, 
“I)o  not  shoot  us,  Hiawatha!” 

Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 

Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 

“ Do  not  shoot  us,  Hiawatha  ! ” 

Up  the  oak-tree,  close  beside  him, 
Sprang  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 

In  and  out  among  the  branches, 

Coughed  and  chattered  from  the  oak-tree, 
Laughed,  and  said  between  his  laughing, 

“ Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha  ! ” 


And  the  rabbit  from  his  pathway 
Leaped  aside,  and  at  a distance 
Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches, 

Half  in  fear  and  half  in  frolic, 

Saying  to  the  little  hunter, 

“Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha!” 

But  he  heeded  not,  nor  heard  them, 
For  his  thoughts  were  with  the  red  deer  ; 
On  their  tracks  his  eyes  were  fastened, 
Leading  downward  to  the  river, 

To  the  ford  across  the  river, 

And  as  one  in  slumber  walked  he. 

Hidden  in  the  alder-bushes, 

There  he  waited  till  the  deer  came, 

Till  he  saw  two  antlers  lifted, 

Saw  two  eyes  look  from  the  thicket, 

Saw  two  nostrils  point  to  windward, 

And  a deer  came  down  the  pathway, 
Flecked  with  leafy  light  and  shadow. 

And  his  heart  within  him  fluttered, 
Trembled  like  the  leaves  above  him, 

Like  the  birch-leaf  palpitated, 

As  the  deer  came  down  the  pathway. 

Then,  upon  one  knee  uprising, 

H iawatha  aimed  an  arrow ; 

Scarce  a twig  moved  with  his  motion, 
Scarce  a leaf  was  stirred  or  rustled, 

But  the  weary  roebuck  started, 

Stamped  with  all  his  hoofs  together. 
Listened  with  one  foot  uplifted, 

Leaped  as  if  to  meet  the  arrow; 

Ah!  the  singing,  fatal  arrow, 

Like  a wasp  it  buzzed  and  stung  him  ! 

Dead  lie  lay  there  in  the  forest. 

By  the  ford  across  the  river ; 

Beat  his  timid  heart  no  longer, 

But  the  heart  of  Hiawatha 
Throbbed  and  shouted  and  exulted, 

As  he  bore  the  red  deer  homeward, 

And  Iagoo  and  Nokomis 
Hailed  his  coming  with  applauses. 

From  the  red  deer’s  hide  Nokomis 
Made  a cloak  for  Hiawatha, 

From  the  red  deer’s  flesh  Nokomis 
Made  a banquet  to  lxis  honor. 

All  the  village  came  and  feasted. 

All  tlie  guests  praised  Hiawatha, 

Called  him  Strong-Heart,  Soan-ge-taha ! 
Called  him  Loon-Heart,  Mahn-go-tay- 
see  ! 


232 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


IV. 

HIAWATHA  AND  MUDJEKEEWIS. 


Out  of  childhood  into  manhood 
Now  had  grown  my  Hiawatha, 

Skilled  in  all  the  craft  of  hunters, 

Learned  in  all  the  lore  of  old  men, 

In  all  youthful  sports  and  pastimes, 

In  all  manly  arts  and  labors. 

Swift  of  foot  was  Hiawatha ; 
lie  could  shoot  an  arrow  from  him, 

And  run  forward  with  such  tleetness, 

That  the  arrow  fell  behind  him ! 

Strong  of  arm  was  Hiawatha ; 

He  could  shoot  ten  arrows  upward, 

Shoot  them  with  such  strength  and  swift- 
ness, 

That  the  tenth  had  left  the  bow-string 
Ere  the  first  to  earth  had  fallen  ! 

He  had  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 

Magic  mittens  made  of  deer-skin  ; 

When  upon  his  hands  he  wore  them, 

He  could  smite  the  rocks  asunder, 

He  could  grind  them  into  powder. 

He  had  moccasins  enchanted, 

Magic  moccasins  of  deer-skin ; 

When  he  bound  them  round  his  ankles, 
When  upon  his  feet  lie  tied  them, 

At  each  stride  a mile  he  measured ! 

Much  he  questioned  old  Nokomis 
Of  his  father  Mudjekeewis ; 

Learned  from  her  the  fatal  secret 
Of  the  beauty  of  his  mother, 

Of  the  falsehood  of  his  father ; 

And  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 

Like  a living  coal  his  heart  Avas. 

Then  lie  said  to  old  Nokomis, 

“ I will  go  to  Mudjekeewis, 

See  Iioav  fares  it  with  my  father, 

At  the  doorways  of  the  West-Wind, 

At  the  portals  of  the  Sunset ! ” 

From  his  lodge  Avent  Hiawatha, 

Dressed  for  travel,  armed  for  hunting; 
Dressed  in  deer-skin  shirt  and  lea’oiims, 
Ilichly  wrought  with  quills  and  Avampum  ; 
On  his  head  his  eagle-featliers, 

Round  his  waist  his  belt  of  wampum, 

In  his  hand  his  bow  of  ash-Avood, 


Strung  Avith  sinews  of  the  reindeer ; 

In  his  quiver  oaken  arrows, 

Tipped  with  jasper,  winged  with  feather 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekalrwun, 

With  bis  moccasins  enchanted. 

Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis, 

“Go  not  forth,  O Hiawatha! 

To  the  kingdom  of  the  West-Wind, 

To  the  realms  of  MudjekeeAvis, 

Lest  he  harm  you  Avitli  his  magic, 

Lest  he  kill  you  with  his  cunning ! ” 

But  the  fearless  Hiawatha 
Heeded  not  her  woman’s  warning; 

Forth  he  strode  into  the  forest, 

At  each  stride  a mile  he  measured; 
Lurid  seemed  the  sky  above  him, 

Lurid  seemed  the  earth  beneath  him, 
Hot  and  close  the  air  around  him, 

Filled  with  smoke  and  fiery  vapors, 

As  of  burning  Avoods  and  prairies, 

For  his  heart  Avas  hot  within  him, 

Like  a living  coal  his  heart  was. 

So  he  journeyed  Avestward,  westward, 
Left  the  fleetest  deer  behind  him, 

Left  the  antelope  and  bison ; 

Crossed  the  rushing  Esconaba, 

Crossed  the  mighty  Mississippi, 

Passed  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 
Passed  the  land  of  Ctoavs  and  Foxes, 
Passed  the  dwellings  of  the  Blackfeet, 
Came  unto  the  Rocky  Mountains, 

To  the  kingdom  of  the  West-Wind, 
Where  upon  the  gusty  summits 
Sat  the  ancient  MudjekeeAvis, 

Ruler  of  the  winds  of  heaven. 

Filled  with  aAve  was  Hiawatha 
At  the  aspect  of  his  father. 

On  the  air  about  him  wildly 
Tossed  and  streamed  his  cloudy  tresses, 
Gleamed  like  drifting  snow  his  tresses, 
Glared  like  Ishkoodah,  the  comet, 

Like  the  star  Avith  fiery  tresses. 

Filled  Avith  joy  Avas  Mudjekeewis 
When  he  looked  on  HiaAvatha, 

Suav  his  youth  rise  up  before  him 


‘ The  Kingdom  of  the  West  Wind.’ 


Ml  UBRUr 
OF  IKE 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


233 


In  the  face  of  Hiawatha, 

Saw  the  beauty  of  Wenonah 
From  the  grave  rise  up  before  him. 

“ Welcome  ! ” said  he,  “ Hiawatha, 
To  the  kingdom  of  the  West-Wind! 
Long  have  I been  waiting  for  you! 
Youth  is  lovely,  age  is  lonely, 

Youth  is  fiery,  age  is  frosty ; 

You  bring  back  the  days  departed, 
You  bring  back  my  youth  of  passion, 
And  the  beautiful  Wenonah!” 

Many  days  they  talked  together, 
Questioned,  listened,  waited,  answered 
Much  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis 
Boasted  of  his  ancient  prowess, 

Of  his  perilous  adventures, 

His  indomitable  courage, 

His  invulnerable  body. 

Patiently  sat  Hiawatha, 

Listening  to  his  father’s  boasting ; 
With  a smile  he  sat  and  listened, 
Uttered  neither  threat  nor  menace, 
Neither  word  nor  look  betrayed  him, 
But  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a living  coal  his  heart  was. 

30 


Then  he  said,  “ O Mudjekeewis, 

Is  there  nothing  that  can  harm  you? 
Nothing  that  you  are  afraid  of?” 

And  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis, 

Grand  and  gracious  in  his  boasting, 
Answered,  saying,  11  There  is  nothing, 
Nothing  but  the  black  rock  yonder, 
Nothing  but  the  fatal  Wawbeek?” 

And  he  looked  at  Hiawatha 
With  a wise  look  and  benignant, 

With  a countenance  paternal, 

Looked  with  pride  upon  the  beauty 
Of  his  tall  and  graceful  figure, 

Saying,  “ O my  Hiawatha  ! 

Is  there  anything  can  harm  you  ? 
Anything  you  are  afraid  of?” 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha 
Paused  awhile,  as  if  uncertain, 

Held  his  peace,  as  if  resolving, 

And  then  answered,  “ There  is  nothing. 
Nothing  but  the  bulrush  yonder, 

Nothing  but  the  great  Apukwa ! ” 

And  as  Mudjekeewis,  rising, 

Stretched  his  hand  to  pluck  the  bulrush, 
Hiawatha  cried  in  terror. 


234 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Cried  in  well-dissembled  terror, 
“Kago!  kago  ! do  not  touch  it!” 

“ Ah,  kaween  ! ” said  Mudjekeewis, 

“No  indeed,  I will  not  touch  it!” 

Then  they  talked  of  other  matters ; 
First  of  Hiawatha’s  brothers, 

First  of  Wabun,  of  the  East-Wind, 

Of  the  South-Wind,  Shawondasee, 

Of  the  North,  Ivabibonokka : 

Then  of  Hiawatha’s  mother, 

Of  the  beautiful  Wenonah. 

Of  her  birth  upon  the  meadow, 

Of  her  death,  as  old  Nokomis 
Had  remembered  and  related. 

And  he  cried,  “ O Mudjekeewis, 

It  was  you  who  killed  Wenonah, 
Took  her  young  life  and  her  beauty, 
Broke  the  Lily  of  the  Prairie, 
Trampled  it  beneath  your  footsteps; 
You  confess  it ! you  confess  it ! ” 

And  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis 
Tossed  upon  the  wind  his  tresses, 
Bowed  his  hoary  head  in  anguish, 
With  a silent  nod  assented. 


Then  up  started  Hiawatha, 

And  with  threatening  look  and  gesture 
Laid  his  hand  upon  the  black  rock, 

On  the  fatal  Wawbeek  laid  it, 

With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 

Rent  the  jutting  crag  asunder, 

Smote  and  crushed  it  into  fragments, 
Hurled  them  madly  at  his  father, 

The  remorseful  Mudjekeewis, 

For  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 

Like  a living  coal  his  heart  was. 

But  the  ruler  of  the  West-Wind 
Blew  the  fragments  backward  from  him, 
With  the  breathing  of  his  nostrils, 

With  the  tempest  of  his  anger, 

Blew  them  back  at  his  assailant ; 

Seized  the  bulrush,  the  Apukwa, 
Dragged  it  with  its  roots  and  fibres 
From  the  margin  of  the  meadow, 

From  its  ooze  the  giant  bulrush ; 

Long  and  loud  laughexl  Hiawatha ! 

Then  began  the  deadly  conflict, 

Hand  to  hand  among  the  mountains ; 
From  his  eyry  screamed  the  eagle, 


HENR  Y WADS  WOR TH  L ON  G FELL 0 W. 


235 


The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 

Sat  upon  the  crags  around  them, 

Wheeling  flapped  his  wings  above  them. 

Like  a tall  tree  in  the  tempest 
Bent  and  lashed  the  giant  bulrush ; 

And  in  masses  huge  and  heavy 
Crashing  fell  the  fatal  Wawbeek ; 

Till  the  earth  shook  with  the  tumult 
And  confusion  of  the  battle, 

And  the  air  was  full  of  shoutings, 

And  the  thunder  of  the  mountains, 
Starting,  answered,  “ Baim-wawa ! ” 

Back  retreated  Mudjekeewis, 

Rushing  westward  o’er  the  mountains, 
Stumbling  westward  down  the  mountains, 
Three  whole  days  retreated  fighting, 

Still  pursued  by  Hiawatha 

To  the  doorways  of  the  West-Wind, 

To  the  portals  of  the  Sunset, 

To  the  earth's  remotest  border, 

Where  into  the  empty  spaces 
Sinks  the  sun,  as  a flamingo 
Drops  into  her  nest  at  nightfall 
In  the  melancholy  marshes. 

“ Hold  ! ” at  length  cried  Mudjekeewis, 

“ Hold,  my  son,  my  Hiawatha ! 

’T  is  impossible  to  kill  me, 

For  you  cannot  kill  the  immortal. 

I have  put  you  to  this  trial, 

But  to  know  and  prove  your  courage  ; 

Now  receive  the  prize  of  valor! 

“Go  back  to  your  home  and  people, 
Live  among  them,  toil  among  them, 
Cleanse  the  earth  from  all  that  harms  it, 
Clear  the  fishing-grounds  and  rivers, 

Slay  all  monsters  and  magicians, 

All  the  Wendigoes,  the  giants, 

All  the  serpents,  the  Kenabeeks, 

As  I slew  the  Mishe-Mokwa, 

Slew  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains. 

“ And  at  last  when  Death  draws  near  you, 
When  the  awful  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  you  in  the  darkness, 

I will  share  my  kingdom  with  you, 

Ruler  shall  you  be  thenceforward 
Of  the  Northwest-Wind,  Keewaydin, 

Of  the  home-wind,  the  Keewaydin.” 

Thus  was  fought  that  famous  battle 
In  the  dreadful  days  of  Shah-shah, 

In  the  days  long  since  departed, 


In  the  kingdom  of  the  West- Wind. 

Still  the  hunter  sees  its  traces 
Scattered  far  o’er  hill  and  valley ; 

Sees  the  giant  bulrush  growing 
By  the  ponds  and  water-courses, 

Sees  the  masses  of  the  Wawbeek 
Lying  still  in  every  valley. 

Homeward  now  went  Hiawatha , 
Pleasant  was  the  landscape  round  him, 
Pleasant  was  the  air  above  him, 

For  the  bitterness  of  anger 
Had  departed  wholly  from  him, 

From  his  brain  the  thought  of  vengeance, 
From  his  heart  the  burning  fever. 


Only  once  his  pace  he  slackened, 
Only  once  he  paused  or  halted, 

Paused  to  purchase  heads  of  arrows 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 

In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

Where  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Flash  and  gleam  among  the  oak-trees, 
Laugh  and  leap  into  the  valley. 

There  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Made  his  arrow-heads  of  sandstone, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony, 
Arrow-heads  of  flint  and  jasper, 
Smoothed  and  sharpened  at  the  edges, 
Hard  and  polished,  keen  and  costly. 


236 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


With  him  dwelt  his  dark-eyed  daughter, 
Wayward  as  the  Minnehaha, 

With  her  moods  of  shade  and  sunshine, 

Eyes  that  smiled  and  frowned  alternate, 

Feet  as  rapid  as  the  river, 

Tresses  flowing  like  the  water, 

And  as  musical  a laughter : 

And  he  named  her  from  the  river, 

From  the  water-fall  he  named  her, 

Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water. 

Was  it  then  for  heads  of  arrows, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony, 

Arrow-heads  of  flint  and  jasper, 

That  my  Hiawatha  halted 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ? 

Was  it  not  to  see  the  maiden, 

See  the  face  of  Laughing  Water 

V. 

HIAWATHA’S 

You  shall  hear  how  Hiawatha 
Prayed  and  fasted  in  the  forest, 

Not  for  greater  skill  in  hunting, 

Not  for  greater  craft  in  fishing, 

Not  for  triumphs  in  the  battle, 

And  renown  among  the  warriors, 

But  for  profit  of  the  people, 

For  advantage  of  the  nations. 

First  he  built  a lodge  for  fasting, 

Built  a wigwam  in  the  forest, 

By  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water, 

In  the  blithe  and  pleasant  Spring-time, 

In  the  Moon  of  Leaves  he  built  it, 

And,  with  dreams  and  visions  many, 

Seven  whole  days  and  nights  he  fasted. 

On  the  first  day  of  his  fasting 
Through  the  leafy  woods  he  wandered ; 

Saw  the  deer  start  from  the  thicket, 

Saw  the  rabbit  in  his  burrow, 

Heard  the  pheasant,  Bena,  drumming, 

Heard  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 

Rattling  in  his  hoard  of  acorns, 

Saw  the  pigeon,  the  Omeme, 

Building  nests  among  the  pine-trees, 

And  in  flocks  the  wild  goose,  Wawa, 

Flying  to  the  fen-lands  northward, 

Whirring,  wailing  far  above  him. 


Peeping  from  behind  the  curtain, 

Hear  the  rustling  of  her  garments 
From  behind  the  waving  curtain, 

As  one  sees  the  Minnehaha 
Gleaming,  glancing  through  the  branches, 
As  one  hears  the  Laughing  Water 
From  behind  its  screen  of  branches  ? 

Who  shall  say  what  thoughts  and  visions 
Fill  the  fiery  brains  of  young  men  ? 

Who  shall  say  what  dreams  of  beauty 
Filled  the  heart  of  Hiawatha? 

All  he  told  to  old  Nokomis, 

When  he  reached  the  lodge  at  sunset, 

\\  ras  the  meeting  with  his  father, 

Was  his  fight  with  Mudjekeewis  ; 

Not  a word  he  said  of  arrows, 

Not  a word  of  Laughing  Water. 


FASTING. 

“ Master  of  Life  ! ” he  cried,  desponding, 
“Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things?'’ 
On  the  next  day  of  his  fasting 
By  the  river’s  brink  he  wandered, 
Through  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 

Saw  the  wild  rice,  Mahnomonee, 

Saw  the  blueberry,  Meenahga, 

And  the  strawberry,  Odahmin, 

And  the  gooseberry,  Shahbomin 
And  the  grape-vine,  the  Bemahgut, 
Trailing  o’er  the  alder-branches, 

Filling  all  the  air  with  fragrance  ! 

“ Master  of  Life  ! ” he  cried,  desponding, 

“ Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things  ? ” 
On  the  third  day  of  his  fasting 
By  the  lake  he  sat  and  pondered, 

By  the  still,  transparent  water  ; 

Saw  the  sturgeon,  Nahma,  leaping, 
Scattering  drops  like  beads  of  wampum, 
Saw  the  yellow  perch,  the  Sahwa, 

Like  a sunbeam  in  the  water, 

Saw  the  pike,  the  Maskenozlia, 

And  the  herring,  Okahahwis, 

And  the  Shawgashee,  the  craw-fisli ! 

“ Master  of  Life ! ” he  cried,  desponding, 
“Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things?” 
On  the  fourth  day  of  his  fasting 


IIENR  Y WADS  WOR  Til  I.  ON G FELL  0 W. 


23 


In  his  lodge  lie  lay  exhausted; 

From  his  couch  of  leaves  and  branches 
Gazing  with  half-open  eyelids, 

Full  of  shadowy  dreams  and  visions, 

On  the  dizzy,  swimming  landscape, 

On  the  gleaming  of  the  water, 

On  the  splendor  of  the  sunset. 

And  he  saw  a youth  approaching, 
Dressed  in  garments  green  and  yellow 
Coming  through  the  purple  twilight, 
Through  the  splendor  of  the  sunset ; 
Plumes  of  green  bent  o’er  his  forehead. 
And  his  hair  was  soft  and  golden. 

Standing  at  the  open  doorway. 

Long  lie  looked  at  Hiawatha, 

Looked  with  pity  and  compassion 
On  his  wasted  form  and  features, 

And,  in  accents  like  the  sighing 
Of  the  South-Wind  in  the  tree-tops, 

Said  he,  “ O my  Hiawatha  ! 

All  your  prayers  are  heard  in  heaven. 
For  you  pray  not  like  the  others  ; 

Not  for  greater  skill  in  hunting, 

Not  for  greater  craft  in  fishing, 

Not  for  triumph  in  the  battle, 

Nor  renown  among  the  warriors. 

But  for  profit  of  the  people, 

For  advantage  of  the  nations. 

“ From  the  Master  of  Life  descending, 
I,  the  friend  of  man,  Mondamin, 


Come  to  warn  you  and  instruct  you, 

How  by  struggle  and  by  labor 

You  shall  gain  what  you  have  prayed  for 

Rise  up  from  your  bed  of  branches, 

Rise,  O youth,  and  Avrestle  with  me ! ” 

Faint  with  famine,  Hiawatha 
Started  from  his  bed  of  branches, 

From  the  twilight  of  his  wigwam 
Forth  into  the  flush  of  sunset 
Came,  and  wrestled  with  Mondamin, 

At  his  touch  he  felt  new  courage 
Throbbing  in  his  brain  and  bosom, 

Felt  new  life  and  hope  and  vigor 
Run  through  every  nerve  and  fibre. 

So  they  wrestled  there  together 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 

And  the  more  they  strove  and  struggled. 
Stronger  still  grew  Hiawatha ; 

Till  the  darkness  fell  around  them, 

And  the  heron,  the  Shnh-sliuh-gah, 

From  her  nest  among  the  pine-trees, 

Gave  a cry  of  lamentation, 

Gave  a scream  of  pain  and  famine. 

“ ’Tis  enough  1 ” then  said  Mondamin, 
Smiling  upon  Hiawatha, 

“ Bnt  to-morrow,  when  the  sun  sets, 

I will  come  again  to  try  you.” 

And  he  vanished,  and  was  seen  not ; 
Whether  sinking  as  the  rain  sinks, 
Whether  rising  as  the  mists  rise, 


238 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Hiawatha  saw  not,  knew  not, 

Only  saw  that  he  had  vanished, 

Leaving  him  alone  and  fainting, 

With  the  misty  lake  below  him. 

And  the  reeling  stars  above  him, 

On  the  morrow  and  the  next  day, 

When  the  sun  through  heaven  descending, 
Like  a red  and  burning  cinder 
From  the  hearth  of  the  Great  Spirit, 

Fell  into  the  western  waters, 

Came  Mondamin  for  the  trial, 

For  the  strife  with  Hiawatha ; 

Came  as  silent  as  the  dew  comes, 

From  the  empty  air  appearing, 

Into  empty  air  returning, 

Taking  shape  when  earth  it  touches, 


But  invisible  to  all  men 
In  its  coming  and  its  going. 

Thrice  they  wrestled  there  together 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 

Till  the  darkness  fell  around  them, 

Till  the  heron,  the  Shuh-sliuh-gah, 
From  her  nest  among  the  pine-trees, 
Uttered  her  loud  cry  of  famine, 

And  Mondamin  paused  to  listen. 

Tall  and  beautiful  he  stood  there, 

In  his  garments  green  and  yellow; 

To  and  fro  his  plumes  above  him 
Waved  and  nodded  with  his  breathing, 
And  the  sweat  of  the  encounter 
Stood  like  drops  of  dew  upon  him. 

And  he  cried,  “ O Hiawatha ! 


Bravely  have  you  wrestled  with  me, 
Thrice  have  wrestled  stoutly  with  me, 
And  the  Master  of  Life,  who  sees  us, 

He  will  give  to  you  the  triumph  ! ” 

Then  he  smiled,  and  said : “ To-morrow 
Is  the  last  day  of  your  conflict, 


Is  the  last  day  of  your  fasting. 

You  will  conquer  and  o’ercome  me ; 

Make  a bed  for  me  to  lie  in, 

Where  the  rain  may  fall  upon  me, 

Where  the  sun  may  come  and  warm  me ; 
Strip  these  garments,  green  and  yellow, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


239 


Strip  this  nodding  plumage  from  me, 

Lay  me  in  the  earth,  and  make  it 
Soft  and  loose  and  light  above  me. 

“ Let  no  hand  disturb  my  slumber, 

Let  no  weed  nor  worm  molest  me, 

Let  not  Ivahgahgee,  the  raven, 

Come  to  haunt  me  and  molest  me, 

Only  come  yourself  to  watch  me, 

Till  I wake,  and  start,  and  quicken, 

Till  I leap  into  the  sunshine.” 

And  thus  saying,  he  departed ; 
Peacefully  slept  Hiawatha, 

But  he  heard  the  Wawonaissa, 

Heard  the  whippoorwill  complaining, 
Perched  upon  his  lonely  wigwam ; 

Heard  the  rushing  Sebowisha, 

Heard  the  rivulet  rippling  near  him, 
Talking  to  the  darksome  forest ; 

Heard  the  sighing  of  the  branches, 

As  they  lifted  and  subsided 
At  the  passing  of  the  night-wind, 

Heard  them,  as  one  hears  in  slumber 
Far-off  murmurs,  dreamy  whispers : 
Peacefully  slept  Hiawatha. 

On  the  morrow  came  Nokomis, 

On  the  seventh  day  of  his  fasting, 

Came  with  food  for  Hiawatha, 

Came  imploring  and  bewailing, 

Lest  his  hunger  should  o’ercome  him, 
Lest  his  fasting  should  be  fatal. 

But  he  tasted  not,  and  touched  not, 
Only  said  to  her,  “ Nokomis, 

Wait  until  the  sun  is  setting, 

Till  the  darkness  falls  around  us, 

Till  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 

Crying  from  the  desolate  marshes, 

Tells  us  that  the  day  is  ended.” 

Homeward  weeping  went  Nokomis, 
Sorrowing  for  her  Hiawatha, 

Fearing  lest  his  strength  should  fail  him, 
Lest  his  fasting  should  be  fatal. 

He  meanwhile  sat  weary  waiting 
For  the  coming  of  Mondamin, 

Till  the  shadows,  pointing  eastward, 
Lengthened  over  field  and  forest, 

Till  the  sun  dropped  from  the  heaven, 
Floating  on  the  waters  westward, 

As  a red  leaf  in  the  Autumn 
Falls  and  floats  upon  the  water, 

Falls  and  sinks  into  its  bosom. 


And  behold  ! the  young  Mondamin, 
With  his  soft  and  shining  tresses, 

With  his  garments  green  and  yellow, 
With  his  long  and  glossy  plumage, 

Stood  and  beckoned  at  the  doorway, 

And  as  one  in  slumber  walking, 

Pale  and  haggard,  but  undaunted, 

From  the  wigwam  Hiawatha 
Came  and  wrestled  with  Mondamin. 

Round  about  him  spun  the  landscape, 
Sky  and  forest  reeled  together, 

And  his  strong  heart  leaped  within  him. 
As  the  sturgeon  leaps  and  struggles 
In  a net  to  break  its  meshes. 

Like  a ring  of  fire  around  him 
Blazed  and  flared  the  red  horizon, 

And  a hundred  suns  seemed  looking 
At  the  combat  of  the  wrestlers. 

Suddenly  upon  the  greensward 
All  alone  stood  Hiawatha, 

Panting  with  his  wild  exertion, 

Palpitating  with  the  struggle  ; 

And  before  him,  breathless,  lifeless, 

Lay  the  youth,  with  hair  dishevelled, 
Plumage  torn,  and  garments  tattered, 
Dead  he  lay  there  in  the  sunset. 

And  victorious  Hiawatha 
Made  the  grave  as  he  commanded, 
Stripped  the  garments  from  Mondamin, 
Stripped  his  tattered  plumage  from  him, 
Laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  made  it 
Soft  and  loose  and  light  above  him  ; 

And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 

From  the  melancholy  moorlands, 

Gave  a cry  of  lamentation, 

Gave  a cry  of  pain  and  anguish  ! 

Homeward  then  went  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis, 

And  the  seven  days  of  his  fasting 
Were  accomplished  and  completed. 

But  the  place  was  not  forgotten 
Where  he  wrestled  with  Mondamin ; 

Nor  forgotten  nor  neglected 

Was  the  grave  where  lay  Mondamin, 

Sleeping  in  the  rain  and  sunshine, 

Where  his  scattered  plumes  and  garments 
Faded  in  the  rain  and  sunshine. 

Day  by  day  did  Hiawatha 
Go  to  wait  and  watch  beside  it  ; 

Kept  the  dark  mould  soft  above  it, 


240 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Kept  it  clean  from  weeds  and  insects, 
Drove  away,  with  scoffs  and  shoutings, 
Ivahgahgee,  the  king  of  ravens. 

Till  at  length  a small  green  feather 
From  the  earth  shot  slowly  upward, 
Then  another  and  another, 

And  before  the  Summer  ended 
Stood  the  maize  in  all  its  beauty, 

With  its  shining  robes  about  it, 

And  its  long,  soft,  yellow  tresses  ; 

And  in  rapture  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud,  “ It  is  Mondamin  ! 

Yes,  the  friend  of  man,  Mondamin  ! ” 

Then  he  called  to  old  Nokomis 
And  Iagoo,  the  great  boaster, 


Showed  them  where  the  maize  was  growing, 
Told  them  of  his  wondrous  vision, 

Of  his  wrestling  and  his  triumph, 

Of  this  new  gift  to  the  nations, 

Which  should  be  their  food  forever. 

And  still  later,  when  the  Autumn 
Changed  the  long,  green  leaves  to  yellow, 
And  the  soft  and  jnicy  kernels 
Grew  like  wampum  hard  and  yellow, 

Then  the  ripened  ears  he  gathered, 
Stripped  the.  withered  husks  from  off  them, 
As  he  once  had  stripped  the  wrestler, 

Gave  the  first  Feast  of  Mondamin, 

And  made  known  unto  the  people 
This  new  gift  of  the  Great  Spirit. 


VI. 


HIAWATHA’S  FRIENDS. 


Two  good  friends  had  Hiawatha, 

Singled  out  from  all  the  others, 

Bound  to  him  in  closest  union, 

And  to  whom  he  gave  the  right  hand 
Of  his  heart,  in  joy  and  sorrow ; 

Chibiabos,  the  musician, 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind. 

Straight  between  them  ran  the  pathway, 
Never  grew  the  grass  upon  it ; 

Singing  birds,  that  utter  falsehoods, 
Story-tellers,  mischief-makers, 

Found  no  eager  ear  to  listen, 

Could  not  breed  ill-will  between  them, 

For  they  kept  each  other's  counsel, 

Spa  ke  with  naked  hearts  together, 
Pondering  much  and  much  contriving 
How  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper. 

Most  beloved  by  Hiawatha 
W as  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 

He  the  best  of  all  musicians, 

He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers. 

Beautiful  and  childlike  Avas  he, 

Brave  as  man  is,  soft  as  woman, 

Pliant  as  a wand  of  willoAv, 

Stately  as  a deer  with  antlers. 

When  he  sang,  the  village  listened ; 

All  the  warriors  gathered  round  him, 

All  the  Avomen  came  to  hear  him  ; 

Now  he  stirred  their  souls  to  passion, 

Noav  he  melted  them  to  pity. 


From  the  IioIIoav  reeds  he  fashioned 
Flutes  so  musical  and  mellow, 

That  the  brook,  the  SeboAvislia, 

Ceased  to  murmur  in  the  Avoodland, 

That  the  Avood-birds  ceased  from  singing, 
And  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 

Ceased  his  chatter  in  the  oak-tree, 

And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 

Sat  upright  to  look  and  listen. 

Yes,  the  brook,  the  Sebowisha, 
Pausing,  said,  “ O Chibiabos, 

Teach  my  Avaves  to  Aoav  in  music, 

Softly  as  your  words  in  singing ! ” 

Yes,  the  bluebird,  the  Chvaissa, 
Envious,  said,  “ ()  Chibiabos, 

Teach  me  tones  as  Avild  and  wayward, 
Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  frenzy  ! ” 

Yes,  the  robin,  the  Opecliee, 

Joyous,  said,  “O  Chibiabos, 

Teach  me  tones  as  SAveet  and  tender, 
Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  gladness ! ” 
And  the  Avhippoonvill,  Wawonaissa, 
Sobbing,  said,  “ O Chibiabos, 

Teach  me  tones  as  melancholy, 

Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  sadness ! ” 

All  the  many  sounds  of  nature 
Borrowed  SAveetness  from  his  singing ; 

All  the  hearts  of  men  Avere  softened 
By  the  pathos  of  his  music  ; 

For  he  sang  of  peace  and  freedom, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


241 


Sang  of  beauty,  love,  and  longing ; 
Sang  of  death,  and  life  undying 
In  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 

In  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 

In  the  land  of  the  hereafter. 

Very  dear  to  Hiawatha 
W as  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 

He  the  best  of  all  musicians, 

He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers  ; 

For  his  gentleness  he  loved  him, 

And  the  magic  of  his  singing. 

Dear,  too,  unto  Hiawatha 
Was  the  very  strong  man,  Ivwasind, 
He  the  strongest  of  all  mortals, 

He  the  mightiest  among  many ; 

For  his  very  strength  he  loved  him, 
For  his  strength  allied  to  goodness. 

Idle  in  his  youth  was  Kwasiud, 
Very  listless,  dull,  and  dreamy, 

Never  played  with  other  children, 
Never  fished  and  never  hunted, 

Not  like  other  children  was  he ; 

But  they  saw  that  much  he  fasted, 
Much  Ids  Manito  entreated, 

Much  besought  his  Guardian  Spirit. 

“ Lazy  Kwasind  ! ” said  his  mother, 
“ In  my  work  you  never  help  me ! 


In  the  summer  you  are  roaming 
Idly  in  the  fields  and  forest ; 

In  the  Winter  you  are  cowering 
O’er  the  firebrands  in  the  wigwam  ! 

In  the  coldest  days  of  Winter 
I must  break  the  ice  for  fishing; 

With  my  nets  you  never  help  me  ! 

At  the  door  my  nets  are  hanging, 
Dripping,  freezing  with  the  water ; 

Go  and  wring  them,  Yenadizze ! 

Go  and  dry  them  in  the  sunshine!” 
Slowly,  from  the  ashes,  Kwasind 
Rose,  but  made  no  angry  answer ; 

From  the  lodge  went  forth  in  silence, 
Took  the  nets,  that  hung  together, 
Dripping,  freezing  at  the  doorway, 

Like  a wisp  of  straw  he  wrung  them, 
Like  a wisp  of  straw  he  broke  them, 
Could  not  wring  them  without  breaking, 
Such  the  strength  was  in  bis  fingers. 

“ Lazy  Kwasind  ! ” said  his  father, 

“ In  the  hunt  you  never  help  me ; 

Every  bow  you  touch  is  broken, 

Snapped  asunder  every  arrow; 

Yet  come  with  me  to  the  forest, 

You  shall  bring  the  hunting  home- 
ward.’' 


242 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Down  a narrow  pass  they  wandered, 
Where  a brooklet  led  them  onward, 

Where  the  trail  of  deer  and  bison 
Marked  the  soft  mud  on  the  margin, 

Till  they  found  all  further  passage 
Shut  against  them,  barred  securely 
By  the  trunks  of  trees  uprooted, 

Lying  lengthwise,  lying  crosswise, 

And  forbidding  further  passage. 

“ We  must  go  back,”  said  the  old  man, 
“ O'er  these  logs  we  cannot  clamber ; 

Not  a woodchuck  could  get  through  them, 
Not  a squirrel  clamber  o’er  them ! ” 

And  straightway  his  pipe  he  lighted, 

And  sat  down  to  smoke  and  ponder. 

But  before  his  pipe  was  finished, 

Lo  ! the  path  was  cleared  before  him  ; 

All  the  trunks  had  Kwasind  lifted, 

To  the  right  hand,  to  the  left  hand, 

Shot  the  pine-trees  swift  as  arrows, 

Hurled  the  cedars  light  as  lances. 

“ Lazy  Kwasind ! ” said  the  young  men, 
As  they  sported  in  the  meadow : 

“ Why  stand  idly  looking  at  us, 

Leaning  on  the  rock  behind  you? 

Come  and  wrestle  with  the  others, 

Let  us  pitch  the  quoit  together ! ” 

Lazy  Kwasind  made  no  answer, 

To  their  challenge  made  no  answer, 

Only  rose,  and  slowly  turning, 

Seized  the  huge  rock  in  his  fingers, 

Tore  it  from  its  deep  foundation, 


Poised  it  in  the  air  a moment, 

Pitched  it  sheer  into  the  river, 

Sheer  into  the  swift  Pauwating, 

Where  it  still  is  seen  in  Summer. 

Once  as  down  that  foaming  river, 
Down  the  rapids  of  Pauwating, 

Kwasind  sailed  with  his  companions, 

In  the  stream  he  saw  a beaver, 

Saw  Alnneek,  the  King  of  Beavers, 
Struggling  with  the  rushing  currents, 
Rising,  sinking  in  the  water. 

Without  speaking,  without  pausing, 
Kwasind  leaped  into  the  river, 

Plunged  beneath  the  bubbling  surface, 
Through  the  whirlpools  chased  the  beav< 
Followed  him  among  the  islands, 

Stayed  so  long  beneath  the  water, 

That  his  terrified  companions 
Cried,  “ Alas  ! good-by  to  Kwasind  ! 

We  shall  never  more  see  Kwasind  ! ” 

But  he  reappeared  triumphant, 

And  upon  his  shining  shoulders 
Brought  the  beaver,  dead  and  dripping, 
Brought  the  King  of  all  the  Beavers. 

And  these  two,  as  I have  told  you, 
Were  the  friends  of  Hiawatha, 
Chibiabos,  the  musician, 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind. 
Long  they  lived  in  peace  together, 

Spake  with  naked  hearts  together, 
Pondering  much  and  much  contriving 
How  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper. 


VII. 

HIAWATHA’S  SAILING. 


“ Give  me  of  your  bark,  O Birch-tree ! 
Of  your  yellow  bark,  O Birch-tree ! 
Growing  by  the  rushing  river, 

Tall  and  stately  in  the  valley ! 

I a light  canoe  will  build  me, 

Build  a swift  Cheemaun  for  sailing, 
That  shall  float  upon  the  river, 

Like  a yellow  leaf  in  Autumn, 

Like  a yellow  water-lily  ! 

“ Lay  aside  your  cloak,  O Birch-tree ! 
Lay  aside  your  white-skin  wrapper, 

For  the  Summer-time  is  coming, 


And  the  sun  is  warm  in  heaven, 

And  you  need  no  white-skin  wrapper!” 
Thus  aloud  cried  Hiawatha 
In  the  solitary  forest, 

By  the  rushing  Taquamenaw, 

When  the  birds  were  singing  gayly, 

In  the  Moon  of  Leaves  were  singing, 
And  the  sun,  from  sleep  awaking, 
Started  up  and  said,  “ Behold  me  ! 
Geezis,  the  great  Sun,  behold  me  ! ” 

And  the  tree  with  all  its  branches 
Rustled  in  the  breeze  of  morning, 


HENR  Y WADS  WO II TH  L ONGFELLO  W. 


243 


Saying,  with  a sigh  of  patience, 

“ Tdke  my  cloak,  ()  Hiawatha!” 

With  his  knife  the  tree  he  girdled; 

Just  beneath  its  lowest  branches, 

Just  above  the  roots,  he  cut  it, 

Till  the  sap  came  oozing  outward ; 

Down  the  trunk,  from  top  to  bottom, 
Sheer  he  cleft  the  bark  asunder, 

With  a wooden  wedge  he  raised  it, 
Stripped  it  from  the  trunk  unbroken. 

“ Give  me  of  your  boughs,  O Cedar  ! 

Of  your  strong  and  pliant  branches, 

My  canoe  to  make  more  steady, 

Make  more  strong  and  firm  beneath  me  ! ” 
Through  the  summit  of  the  Cedar 
Went  a sound,  a cry  of  horror, 

Went  a murmur  of  resistance ; 

But  it  whispered,  bending  downward, 

“ Take  my  boughs,  O Hiawatha  ! ” 

Down  he  hewed  the  boughs  of  cedar, 
Shaped  them  straightway  to  a frame-work, 
Like  two  bows  he  formed  and  shaped  them, 
Like  two  bended  bows  together. 

“ Give  me  of  your  roots,  O Tamarack  ! 
Of  your  fibrous  roots,  O Larch-tree  ! 

My  canoe  to  bind  together, 

So  to  bind  the  ends  together 
That  the  water  may  not  enter, 

That  the  river  may  not  wet  me ! 


And  the  Larch,  with  all  its  fibres, 
Shivered  in  the  air  of  morning, 
Touched  his  forehead  with  its  tassels, 
Said,  with  one  long  sigh  of  sorrow, 

“ Take  them  all,  O Hiawatha  ! ” 

From  the  earth  he  tore  the  fibres, 
Tore  the  tough  roots  of  the  Larch-tree, 
Closely  sewed  the  bark  together, 

Bound  it  closely  to  the  framework. 

Give  me  of  your  balm,  O Fir-tree  ! 
Of  your  balsam  and  your  resin, 

So  to  close  the  seams  together 
That  the  water  may  not  enter, 

That  the  river  may  not  wet  me  ! ” 


244 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


And  the  Fir-tree,  tall  and  sombre, 
Sobbed  through  all  its  robes  of  darkness, 
Rattled  like  a shore  with  pebbles, 
Answered  wailing,  answered  weeping, 

“ Take  my  balm,  O Hiawatha  ! ” 

And  he  took  the  tears  of  balsam, 

Took  the  resin  of  the  Fir-tree, 

Smeared  therewith  each  seam  and  fissure, 
Made  each  crevice  safe  from  water. 

“ Give  me  of  your  quills,  O Hedgehog  ! 
All  your  quills,  O Kagh,  the  Hedgehog  ! 

I will  make  a necklace  of  them, 

Make  a girdle  for  my  beauty, 

And  two  stars  to  deck  her  bosom ! ” 

From  a hollow  tree  the  Hedgehog 
With  his  sleepy  eyes  looked  at  him, 

Shot  his  shining  quills,  like  arrows, 

Saying  with  a drowsy  murmur, 

Through  the  tangle  of  his  whiskers, 

“ Take  my  quills,  O Hiawatha ! ” 

From  the  ground  the  quills  he  gathered, 
All  the  little  shining  arrows, 

Stained  them  red  and  blue  and  yellow, 
With  the  juice  of  roots  and  berries ; 

Into  his  canoe  he  wrought  them, 

Round  its  waist  a shining  girdle, 

Round  its  bows  a gleaming  necklace, 

On  its  breast  two  stars  resplendent. 

Thus  the  Birch  Canoe  was  budded 
In  the  valley,  by  the  river, 

In  the  bosom  of  the  forest ; 

And  the  forest's  life  was  in  it, 

All  its  mystery  and  its  magic, 

All  the  lightness  of  the  bircli-tree, 

All  the  toughness  of  the  cedar, 

All  the  larch’s  supple  sinews  ; 

And  it  floated  on  the  river 


Like  a yellow  leaf  in  Autumn, 

Like  a yellow  water-lily. 

Paddles  none  had  Hiawatha, 

Paddles  none  he  had  or  needed, 

For  his  thoughts  as  paddles  served  him, 
And  his  wishes  served  to  guide  him ; 

Swift  or  slow  at  will  he  glided, 

Veered  to  right  or  left  at  pleasure. 

Then  he  called  aloud  to  Kwasind, 

To  his  friend,  the  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
Saying,  “ Help  me  clear  this  river 
Of  its  sunken  logs  and  sand-bars.” 

Straight  into  the  river  Kwasind 
Plunged  as  if  he  were  an  otter, 

Dived  as  if  he  were  a beaver, 

Stood  up  to  his  waist  in  water, 

To  his  arm-pits  in  the  river, 

Swam  and  shouted  in  the  river, 

Tugged  at  sunken  logs  and  branches, 

With  his  hands  he  scooped  the  sand-bars, 
With  his  feet  the  ooze  and  tangle. 

And  thus  sailed  my  Hiawatha 
Down  the  rushing  Taquamenaw, 

Sailed  through  all  its  bends  and  windings, 
Sailed  through  all  its  deeps  and  shallows, 
While  his  friend,  the  strong  man,  Kwa- 
sind, 

Swam  the  deeps,  -the  shallows  waded. 

Up  and  down  the  river  went  they, 

In  and  out  among  its  islands, 

Cleared  its  bed  of  root  and  sand-bar, 
Dragged  the  dead  trees  from  its  channel, 
Made  its  passage  safe  and  certain, 

Made  a pathway  for  the  people, 

From  its  springs  among  the  mountains, 

To  the  waters  of  Pauwating, 

To  the  bay  of  Taquamenaw. 


VIII. 

HIAWATHA’S  FISHING. 


Forth  upon  the  Gitche  Gurnee, 

On  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water, 

With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar, 

Of  the  twisted  bark  of  cedar. 

Forth  to  catch  the  sturgeon  Nalnna, 
Mishe-Nalima,  King  of  Fishes, 

In  his  birch  canoe  exulting 
All  alone  went  Hiawatha. 


Through  the  clear,  transparent  water 
He  could  see  the  fishes  swimming 
Far  down  in  the  depths  below  him  ; 

See  the  yellow  perch,  the  Sahwa, 

Like  a sunbeam  in  the  water, 

See  the  Shawgashee,  the  craw-fisli, 

Like  a spider  on  the  bottom, 

On  the  white  and  sandy  bottom. 


HENR  Y IV A DS  W OR  TH  L ON  GFEL  L 0 W 


24  5 


At  the  stern  sat  Hiawatha, 

With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar ; 

In  his  plumes  the  breeze  of  morning 
Played  as  in  the  hemlock  branches ; 
On  the  bows,  with  tail  erected, 

Sat  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo  ; 

In  his  fur  the  breeze  of  morning 
Played  as  in  the  prairie  grasses. 

On  the  white  sand  of  the  bottom 
Lay  the  monster  Mishe-Nahma, 

Lay  the  sturgeon,  King  of  Fishes; 


Through  his  ■rills  lie  breathed  the  water. 
With  his  fins  he  fanned  and  winnowed, 
With  his  tail  he  swept  the  sand-floor. 

There  he  lay  in  all  his  armor ; 

On  each  side  a shield  to  guard  him, 
Plates  of  bone  upon  his  forehead, 

Down  his  sides  and  back  and  shoulders 
Plates  of  bone  with  spines  projecting ! 
Painted  was  he  with  his  war-paints, 
Stripes  of  yellow,  red,  and  azure, 

Spots  of  brown  and  spots  of  sable ; 


And  he  lay  there  on  the  bottom, 
Fanning  with  his  fins  of  purple, 

As  above  him  Hiawatha 

In  his  birch  canoe  came  sailing, 

With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar. 

“ Take  my  bait,”  cried  Hiawatha, 
Down  into  the  depths  beneath  him, 
'‘Take  my  bait,  O Sturgeon,  Nahma! 
Come  up  from  below  the  water, 

Let  us  see  which  is  the  stronger ! ” 
And  he  dropped  his  line  of  cedar 
Through  the  clear,  transparent  water, 
Waited  vainly  for  an  answer, 


Long  sat  waiting  for  an  answer, 
And  repeating  loud  and  louder, 
“Take  my  bait,  O King  of  Fishes!” 
Quiet  lay  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Fanning  slowly  in  the  water, 
Looking  up  at  Hiawatha, 

Listening  to  his  call  and  clamor, 
His  unnecessary  tumult, 

Till  he  wearied  of  the  shouting ; 
And  he  said  to  the  Kenozlia, 

To  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 

“ Take  the  bait  of  this  rude  fellow, 
Break  the  line  of  Hiawatha ! ” 


246 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


In  his  fingers  Hiawatha 
Felt  the  loose  line  jerk  and  tighten  ; 

As  he  drew  it  in,  it  tugged  so 
That  the  birch  canoe  stood  endwise, 

Like  a birch  log  in  the  water, 

With  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 

Perched  and  frisking  on  the  summit. 

Full  of  scorn  was  Hiawatha 
When  he  saw  the  fish  rise  upward, 

Saw  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 

Coming  nearer,  nearer  to  him, 

And  he  shouted  through  the  water, 

“ Esa  ! esa  ! shame  upon  you  ! 

You  are  but  the  pike,  Kenozlia, 

You  are  not  the  fish  I wanted, 

You  are  not  the  King  of  Fishes ! ” 
Reeling  downward  to  the  bottom 
Sank  the  pike  in  great  confusion, 

And  the  mighty  sturgeon,  Nalima, 

Said  to  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 

To  the  bream,  with  scales  of  crimson, 

“ Take  the  bait  of  this  great  boaster. 
Break  the  line  of  Hiawatha!” 

Slowly  upward,  wavering,  gleaming, 
Rose  the  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fisli, 

Seized  the  line  of  Hiawatha, 

Swung  with  all  his  weight  upon  it, 

Made  a whirlpool  in  the  water, 

Whirled  the  birch  canoe  in  circles, 
Round  and  round  in  gurgling  eddies, 

Till  the  circles  in  the  water 
Reached  the  far-off  sandy  beaches, 

Till  the  water-flags  and  rushes 
Nodded  on  the  distant  margins. 

But  when  Hiawatha  saw  him 
Slowly  rising  through  the  water, 

Lifting  up  his  disk  refulgent, 

Loud  he  shouted  in  derision, 

“ Esa  ! esa  ! shame  upon  you  ! 

You  are  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 

You  are  not  the  fish  I wanted, 

You  are  not  the  King  of  Fishes  ! ” 

Slowly  downward,  wavering,  gleaming, 
Sank  the  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish. 

And  again  the  sturgeon,  Nalima, 

Heard  the  shout  of  Hiawatha, 

Heard  his  challenge  of  defiance, 

The  unnecessary  tumult, 

Ringing  far  across  the  water. 

From  the  white  sand  of  the  bottom 


LTp  he  rose  with  angry  gesture, 
Quivering  in  each  nerve  and  fibre, 
Clashing  all  his  plates  of  armor, 
Gleaming  bright  with  all  his  war-paint ; 
In  his  wrath  he  darted  upward, 
Flashing  leaped  into  the  sunshine, 
Opened  his  great  jaws,  and  swallowed 
Both  canoe  and  Hiawatha. 

Down  into  that  darksome  cavern 
Plunged  the  headlong  Hiawatha, 

As  a log  on  some  black  river 
Shoots  and  plunges  down  the  rapids, 
Found  himself  in  utter  darkness, 

Groped  about  in  helpless  wonder, 

Till  he  felt  a great  heart  beating, 
Throbbing  in  that  utter  darkness. 

And  he  smote  it  in  his  anger, 

With  his  fist,  the  heart  of  Nalima, 

Felt  the  mighty  King  of  Fishes 
Shudder  through  eacli  nerve  and  fibre. 
Heard  the  water  gurgle  round  him 
As  he  leaped  and  staggered  through  it, 
Sick  at  heart,  and  faint  and  weary. 

Crosswise  then  did  Hiawatha 
Drag  his  birch-canoe  for  safety, 

Lest  from  out  the  jaws  of  Nalima, 

In  the  turmoil  and  confusion, 

Forth  he  might  be  hurled  and  perish. 
And  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 

Frisked  and  chatted  very  gayly, 

Toiled  and  tugged  with  Hiawatha 
Till  the  labor  was  completed, 

Then  said  Hiawatha  to  him, 

“ O my  little  friend,  the  squirrel, 

Bravely  have  you  toiled  to  help  me  ; 
Take  the  thanks  of  Hiawatha, 

And  the  name  which  now  he  gives  you 
For  hereafter  and  forever 
Boys  shall  call  you  Adjidaumo, 
Tail-in-air  the  boys  shall  call  you  ! ” 

And  again  the  sturgeon,  Nalima, 
Gasped  and  quivered  in  the  water, 

Then  was  still,  and  drifted  landward 
Till  he  grated  on  the  iiebbles, 

Till  the  listening  Hiawatha 
Heard  him  grate  upon  the  margin, 

Felt  him  strand  upon  the  pebbles, 

Knew  that  Nalima,  King  of  Fishes, 

Lay  there  dead  upon  the  margin. 

Then  he  heard  a clang  and  flapping, 


HENR  Y WA  DS  IVOR TH  L ON G FEL R 0 W. 


247 


As  of  many  wings  assembling, 

Heard  a screaming  and  confusion, 

As  of  birds  of  prey  contending, 

Saw  a gleam  of  light  above  him, 
Shining  through  the  ribs  of  Nalima, 
Saw  the  glittering  eyes  of  sea-gulls, 

Of  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls,  peering, 
Gazing  at  him  through  the  opening. 
Heard  them  saying  to  each  other, 

“’Tis  our  brother,  Hiawatha!” 

And  he  shouted  from  below  them, 
Cried  exulting  from  the  caverns  : 

“ O ye  sea-gulls  ! O my  brothers  ! 

I have  slain  the  sturgeon,  Nalima ; 
Make  the  rifts  a little  larger, 

With  your  claws  the  openings  widen, 
Set  me  free  from  this  dark  prison, 

And  henceforward  and  forever 

Men  shall  speak  of  your  achievements, 

Calling  you  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls, 

Yes,  Kayoshk,  the  Noble  Scratchers ! ” 
And  the  wild  and  clamorous  sea-gulls 
Toiled  with  beak  and  claws  together, 
Made  the  rifts  and  openings  wider 
In  the  mighty  ribs  of  Nalima, 

And  from  peril  and  from  prison, 

From  the  body  of  the  sturgeon, 

From  the  peril  of  the  water, 

They  released  my  Hiawatha. 

He  was  standing  near  his  wigwam, 
On  the  margin  of  the  water, 

And  he  called  to  old  Nokomis, 

Called  and  beckoned  to  Nokomis, 
Pointed  to  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 

Lying  lifeless  on  the  pebbles, 

With  the  sea-gulls  feeding  on  him. 


“1  have  slain  the  Mishe-Nalima, 

Slain  the  King  of  Fishes!”  said  he; 

“Look!  the  sea-gulls  feed  upon  him, 

Yes,  my  friends  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls ; 
Drive  them  not  away,  Nokomis, 

They  have  saved  me  from  great  peril 
In  the  body  of  the  sturgeon, 

Wait  until  their  meal  is  ended, 

Till  their  craws  are  full  with  feasting, 

Till  they  homeward  fly,  at  sunset, 

To  their  nests  among  the  marshes ; 

Then  bring  all  your  pots  and  kettles, 

And  make  oil  for  us  in  Winter.” 

And  she  waited  till  the  sun  set, 

Till  the  pallid  moon,  the  Night-sun, 

Rose  above  the  tranquil  water, 

Till  Kayoshk,  the  sated  sea-gulls, 

From  their  banquet  rose  with  clamor, 

And  across  the  fiery  sunset 
Winged  their  way  to  far-off  islands, 

To  their  nests  among  the  rushes. 

To  his  sleep  went  Hiawatha, 

And  Nokomis  to  her  labor, 

Toiling  patient  in  the  moonlight, 

Till  the  sun  and  moon  changed  places, 

Till  the  sky  was  red  with  sunrise, 

And  Kayoshk,  the  hungry  sea-gulls, 

Came  back  from  the  reedy  islands, 
Clamorous  for  their  morning  banquet. 

Three  whole  days  and  nights  alternate 
Old  Nokomis  and  the  sea-gulls 
Stripped  the  oily  flesh  of  Nahma, 

Till  the  waves  washed  through  the  rib-bones, 
Till  the  sea-gulls  came  no  longer, 

And  upon  the  sands  lay  nothing 
But  the  skeleton  of  Nahma. 


48 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


IX. 

HIAWATHA  AND  THE  PEARL-FEATHER. 


On  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gurnee, 

Of  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water, 

Stood  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 

Pointing  with  her  finger  westward, 

O'er  the  water  pointing  westward, 

To  the  purple  clouds  of  sunset. 

Fiercely  the  red  sun  descending 
Burned  his  way  along  the  heavens, 

Set  the  sky  on  fire  behind  him, 

As  war-parties,  when  retreating, 

Burn  the  prairies  on  their  war-trail ; 
And  the  moon,  the  Night-sun,  eastward, 
Suddenly  starting  from  his  ambush, 
Followed  fast  those  bloody  footprints, 
Followed  in  that  fiery  war-trail, 

With  its  glare  upon  his  features. 

And  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
Pointing  with  her  finger  westward, 
Spake  these  words  to  Hiawatha : 

Yonder  dwells  the  great  Pearl-Feather, 
Megissogwon,  the  Magician, 

Manito  of  Wealth  and  Wampum, 
Guarded  by  his  fiery  serpents, 

Guarded  by  the  black  pitch- water. 

You  can  see  his  fiery  serpents, 

The  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpents, 
Coiling,  playing  in  the  water  ; 

You  can  see  the  black  pitch- water 
Stretching  far  away  beyond  them, 

To  the  purple  clouds  of  sunset ! 

“ He  it  was  who  slew  my  father, 

By  his  wicked  wiles  and  cunning, 

When  he  from  the  moon  descended, 
When  he  came  on  earth  to  seek  me. 

He,  the  mightiest  of  Magicians, 

Sends  the  fever  from  the  marshes, 

Sends  the  pestilential  vapors, 

Sends  the  poisonous  exhalations, 

Sends  the  white  fog  from  the  fen-lands, 
Sends  disease  and  death  among  us ! 

“ Take  your  bow,  O Hiawatha, 

Take  your  arrows,  jasper-headed, 

Take  your  war-club,  Puggawaugun, 

And  your  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 

And  your  birch-canoe  for  sailing, 


And  the  oil  of  Mishe-Nahma, 

So  to  smear  its  sides,  that  swiftly 
You  may  pass  the  black  pitch- water; 

Slay  this  merciless  magician, 

Save  the  people  from  the  fever 
That  he  breathes  across  the  fen-lands, 

And  avenge  my  father’s  murder ! ” 
Straightway  then  my  Hiawatha 
Armed  himself  with  all  his  war-gear, 
Launched  his  birch-canoe  for  sailing; 

With  his  palm  its  sides  he  patted, 

Said  with  glee,  “ Cheemaun,  my  darling, 

O my  Birch-canoe  ! leap  forward, 

Where  you  see  the  fiery  serpents, 

Where  you  see  the  black  pitch-water ! ” 
Forward  leaped  Cheemaun  exulting, 

And  the  noble  Hiawatha 

Sang  his  war-song  wild  and  woful, 

And  above  him  the  war-eagle, 

The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 

Master  of  all  fowls  with  feathers, 

Screamed  and  hurtled  through  the  heavens. 

Soon  he  reached  the  fiery  serpents, 

The  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpents, 

Lying  huge  upon  the  water, 

Sparkling,  rippling  in  the  water, 

Lying  coiled  across  the  passage, 

With  their  blazing  crests  uplifted, 
Breathing  fiery  fogs  and  vapors, 

So  that  none  could  pass  beyond  them. 

But  the  fearless  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud,  and  spake  in  this  wise : 

“ Let  me  pass  my  way,  Kenabeek, 

Let  me  go  upon  my  journey ! ” 

And  they  answered,  hissing  fiercely, 

With  their  fiery  breath  made  answer : 

“ Back,  go  back  ! O Shaugodaya  ! 

Back  to  old  Nokomis,  Faint-heart ! ” 

Then  the  angry  Hiawatha 
Raised  his  mighty  bow  of  asli-tree, 

Seized  his  arrows,  jasper-headed, 

Shot  them  fast  among  the  serpents  ; 

Every  twanging  of  the  bow-string 
Was  a war-cry  and  a death-cry, 

Every  whizzing  of  an  arrow 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


249 


Was  a death-song  of  Kenabeek. 

Weltering  in  the  bloody  water, 

Dead  lay  all  the  fiery  serpents, 

And  among  them  Hiawatha 
Harmless  sailed,  and  cried  exulting  : 

“ Onward,  O Cheemaun,  my  darling ! 
Onward  to  the  black  pitch-water ! ” 

Then  he  took  the  oil  of  Nahma, 

And  the  bows  and  sides  anointed, 
Smeared  them  well  with  oil,  that  swiftly 
He  might  pass  the  black  pitch-water. 

All  night  long  he  sailed  upon  it. 

Sailed  upon  that  sluggish  water, 

Covered  with  its  mould  of  ages, 

Black  with  rotting  water-rushes, 

Rank  with  flags  and  leaves  of  lilies, 
Stagnant,  lifeless,  dreary,  dismal, 

Lighted  by  the  shimmering  moonlight, 
And  by  will-o’-the-wisps  illumined, 

Fires  by  ghosts  of  dead  men  kindled, 

In  their  weary  night-encampments. 

All  the  air  was  white  with  moonlight, 

32 


All  the  water  black  with  shadow, 

And  around  him  the  Suggema, 

The  mosquito,  sang  his  war-song, 

And  the  fire-flies,  Wah-wah-taysee, 
Waved  their  torches  to  mislead  him  : 
And  the  bull-frog,  the  Dahinda, 

Thrust  his  head  into  the  moonlight. 
Fixed  his  yelloAv  eyes  upon  him, 
Sobbed  and  sank  beneath  the  surface  ; 
And  anon  a thousand  whistles, 
Answered  over  all  the  fen-lands, 

And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 

Far  off  on  the  reedy  margin, 

Heralded  the  hero’s  coming. 

Westward  thus  fared  Hiawatha, 
Toward  the  realm  of  Megissogwon, 
Toward  the  land  of  the  Pearl-Feather, 
Till  the  level  moon  stared  at  him, 

In  his  face  stared  pale  and  haggard, 
Till  the  sun  was  hot  behind  him, 

Till  it  burned  upon  his  shoulders, 

And  before  him  on  the  upland 


250 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


He  could  see  the  Shining  Wigwam 
Of  the  Manito  of  Wampum, 

Of  the  mightiest  of  Magicians. 

Then  once  more  Cheemaun  lie  patted, 
To  his  birch-canoe  said,  “ Onward  ! ” 

And  it  stirred  in  all  its  fibres, 

And  with  one  great  bound  of  triumph 
Leaped  across  the  water-lilies, 

Leaped  through  tangled  flags  and  rushes, 
And  upon  the  beach  beyond  them 
Dry-shod  landed  Hiawatha. 

Straight  he  took  his  bow  of  ash-tree, 

On  the  sand  one  end  he  rested, 

With  his  knee  he  pressed  the  middle, 
Stretched  the  faithful  bow-string  tighter, 
Took  an  arrow,  jasper-headed, 

Shot  it  at  the  Shining  Wigwam, 

Sent  it  singing  as  a herald, 

As  a bearer  of  his  message, 

Of  his  challenge  loud  and  lofty : 

“Come  forth  from  your  lodge,  Pearl-Feather! 
Hiawatha  waits  your  coming  ! ” 

Straightway  from  the  Shining  Wigwam 
Came  the  mighty  Megissogwon, 

Tall  of  stature,  broad  of  shoulder, 

Dark  and  terrible  in  aspect, 

Clad  from  head  to  foot  in  wampum, 
Armed  with  all  his  warlike  weapons, 
Painted  like  the  sk}^  of  morning, 

Streaked  with  crimson,  blue,  and  yellow, 
Crested  with  great  eagle-feathers, 

Streaming  upward,  streaming  outward. 

“Well  I know  you,  Hiawatha!” 

Cried  he  in  a voice  of  thunder, 

In  a tone  of  loud  derision. 

“ Hasten  back,  O Sliaugodaya ! 

Hasten  back  among  the  women, 

Back  to  old  Nokomis,  Faint-heart ! 

I will  slay  you  as  you  stand  there, 

As  of  old  I slew  her  father  ! ” 

But  my  Hiawatha  answered, 

Nothing  daunted,  fearing  nothing : 

“ Big  words  do  not  smite  like  war-clubs, 
Boastful  breath  is  not  a bow-string, 

Taunts  are  not  so  sharp  as  arrows, 

Deeds  are  better  things  than  words  are, 
Actions  mightier  than  boastings  ! ” 

Then  began  the  greatest  battle 
That  the  sun  had  ever  looked  on, 

That  the  war-birds  ever  witnessed. 


All  a Summer’s  day  it  lasted. 

From  the  sunrise  to  the  sunset ; 

For  the  shafts  of  Hiawatha 
Harmless  hit  the  shirt  of  wampum, 
Harmless  fell  the  blows  he  dealt  it 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 

Harmless  fell  the  heavy  war-club  ; 

It  could  dash  the  rocks  asunder, 

But  it  could  not  break  the  meshes 
Of  that  magic  shirt  of  wampum. 

Till  at  sunset  Hiawatha, 

Leaning  on  his  bow  of  ash-tree, 

Wounded,  weary,  and  desponding, 

With  his  mighty  war-club  broken, 

With  his  mittens  torn  and  tattered. 

And  three  useless  arrows  only, 

Paused  to  rest  beneath  a pine-tree, 

From  whose  branches  trailed  the  mosses, 
And  whose  trunk  was  coated  over 
With  the  Dead-man’s  Moccasin-leather, 
With  the  fungus  white  and  yellow. 

Suddenly  from  the  boughs  above  him 
Sang  the  Mama,  the  woodpecker : 

“Aim  your  arrows,  Hiawatha, 

At  the  head  of  Megissogwon, 

Strike  the  tuft  of  hair  upon  it, 

At  their  roots  the  long  black  tresses ; 
There  alone  can  he  be  wounded ! ” 

Winged  with  feathers,  tipped  with  jasper 
Swift  flew  Hiawatha’s  arrow, 

Just  as  Megissogwon,  stooping, 

Raised  a heavy  stone  to  throw  it. 

Full  upon  the  crown  it  struck  him, 

At  the  roots  of  his  long  tresses, 

And  he  reeled  and  staggered  forward, 
Plunging  like  a wounded  bison, 

Yes,  like  Pezliekee,  the  bison, 

When  the  snow  is  on  the  prairie. 

Swifter  flew  the  second  arrow, 

In  the  pathway  of  the  other, 

Piercing  deeper  than  the  other, 

Wounding  sorer  than  the  other  ; 

And  the  knees  of  Megissogwon 
Shook  like  windy  reeds  beneath  him, 

Bent  and  trembled  like  the  rushes. 

But  the  third  and  latest  arrow 
Swiftest  flew,  and  wounded  sorest, 

And  the  mighty  Megissogwon 
Saw  the  fiery  eyes  of  Pauguk, 

Saw  the  eyes  of  Death  glare  at  him, 


ijrnr  t wa  ds  won  th  l on g fell  o w. 


251 


Heard  his  voice  call  in  the  darkness  ; 

At  the  feet  of  Hiawatha 

Lifeless  lay  the  great  Pearl-Feather, 

Lay  the  mightiest  of  Magicians. 

Then  the  grateful  Hiawatha 
Called  the  Mama,  the  woodpecker, 

From  his  perch  among  the  branches 
Of  the  melancholy  pine-tree, 

And,  in  honor  of  his  service, 

Stained  with  blood  the  tuft  of  feathers 
On  the  little  head  of  Mama  ; 

Even  to  this  day  he  wears  it, 

Wears  the  tuft  of  crimson  feathers, 

As  a symbol  of  his  service. 

Then  he  stripped  the  shirt  of  wampum 
From  the  back  of  Megissogwon, 

As  a trophy  of  the  battle, 

As  a signal  of  his  conquest. 

On  the  shore  he  left  the  body, 

Half  on  land  and  half  in  water, 

In  the  sand  his  feet  were  buried, 

And  his  face  was  in  the  water. 

And  above  him,  wheeled  and  clamored 
The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 

Sailing  round  in  narrower  circles, 
Hovering  nearer,  nearer,  nearer. 

From  the  wigwam  Hiawatha 
Bore  the  wealth  of  Megissogwon, 

All  his  wealth  of  skins  and  wampum, 
Furs  of  bison  and  of  beaver. 

Furs  of  sable  and  of  ermine, 

Wampum  belts  and  strings  and  pouches, 


Quivers  wrought  with  beads  of  wampum, 
Filled  with  arrows,  silver-headed. 

Homeward  then  lie  sailed  exulting, 
Homeward  through  the  black  pitch-water, 
Homeward  through  the  weltering  serpents, 
With  the  trophies  of  the  battle, 

With  a shout  and  song  of  triumph, 

On  the  shore  stood  old  Nokomis, 

On  the  shore  stood  Cliibiabos, 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
Waiting  for  the  hero’s  coming, 

Listening  to  his  songs  of  triumph. 

And  the  people  of  the  village 
Welcomed  him  with  songs  and  dances, 
Made  a joyous  feast,  and  shouted : 

“ Honor  be  to  Hiawatha  ! 

He  has  slain  the  great  Pearl-Feather, 

Slain  the  mightiest  of  magicians, 

Him,  who  sent  the  fiery  fever, 

Sent  the  white  fog  from  the  fen-lands, 
Sent  disease  and  death  among  us  ! ” 

Ever  dear  to  Hiawatha 
Was  the  memory  of  Mama! 

And  in  token  of  his  friendship, 

As  a mark  of  his  remembrance, 

He  adorned  and  decked  his  pipe-stem 
With  the  crimson  tuft  of  feathers, 

With  the  blood-red  crest  of  Mama. 

But  the  wealth  of  Megissogwon, 

All  the  trophies  of  the  battle, 

He  divided  with  his  people, 

Shared  it  equally  among  them. 


252 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


X. 


hiawatha’s  wooing. 


“ As  unto  the  bow  the  cord  is, 

So  unto  the  man  is  woman, 

Though  she  bends  him,  she  obeys  him, 
Though  she  draws  him,  yet  she  follows, 
Useless  each  without  the  other!” 

Thus  the  youthful  Hiawatha 
Said  within  himself  and  pondered, 

Much  perplexed  by  various  feelings, 
Listless,  longing,  hoping,  fearing, 
Dreaming  still  of  Minnehaha, 

Of  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 

In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs. 

“ Wed  a maiden  of  your  people,” 
Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis  ; 

“ Go  not  eastward,  go  not  westward. 

For  a stranger,  whom  we  know  not ! 
Like  a fire  upon  the  lieartli-stone 
Is  a neighbor’s  homely  daughter, 

Like  the  starlight  or  the  moonlight 
Is  the  handsomest  of  strangers ! ” 


Thus  dissuading  spake  Nokomis, 
And  my  Hiawatha  answered 
Only  this  : “ Dear  old  Nokomis, 
Very  pleasant  is  the  firelight, 

But  I like  the  starlight  better, 
Better  do  I like  the  moonlight ! ” 
Gravely  then  said  old  Nokomis: 
“Bring  not. here  an  idle  maiden, 
Bring  not  here  a useless  woman, 
Hands  unskilful,  feet  unwilling ; 
Bring  a wife  with  nimble  fingers, 
Heart  and  hand  that  move  together. 
Feet  that  run  on  willing  errands  ! ” 
Smiling  answered  Hiawatha  : 

“ In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs 
Lives  the  Arrow-maker’s  daughter, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women. 

I will  bring  her  to  your  wigwam, 
She  shall  run  upon  your  errands, 


‘The  Kingdom  of  the  West  Wind.' 

II  mil 


mi  mbrahY 
Of  THE 

OffiYEtOT  CF  ILUBCIS 


henr  r wa  ns  won  th  l on g fell  o w 


Be  your  starlight,  moonlight,  firelight, 

Be  the  sunlight  of  my  people! 

Still  dissuading  said  Nokomis  : 

“ Bring  not  to  my  lodge  a stranger 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ! 

Very  fierce  are  the  Dacotahs, 

Often  is  there  war  between  us, 

There  are  feuds  yet  unforgotten, 

Wounds  that  ache  and  still  may  open  ! 
Laughing  answered  Hiawatha : 

“ For  that  reason,  if  no  other. 

Would  I wed  the  fair  Dacotah, 

That  our  tribes  might  be  united, 

That  old  feuds  might  be  forgotten, 

And  old  wounds  be  healed  forever ! ” 
Thus  departed  Hiawatha 
To  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

To  the  land  of  handsome  women  ; 
Striding  over  moor  and  meadow, 

Through  interminable  forests, 

Through  uninterrupted  silence. 

With  his  moccasins  of  magic, 

At  each  stride  a mile  he  measured ; 

Yet  the  way  seemed  long  before  him, 
And  his  heart  outran  his  footsteps; 

And  he  journeyed  without  resting. 

Till  he  heard  the  cataract’s  laughter, 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  through  the  silence. 

“ Pleasant  is  the  sound  ! ” he  murmured, 

“ Pleasant  is  the  voice  that  calls  me  ! ” 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  forests, 

'Twixt  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine. 
Herds  of  fallow  deer  were  feeding, 

But  they  saw  not  Hiawatha; 

To  his  bow  he  whispered,  “ Fail  not ! ” 
To  his  arrow  whispered,  “ Swerve  not ! ” 
Sent  it  singing  on  its  errand. 

To  the  red  heart  of  the  roebuck ; 

Threw  the  deer  across  his  shoulder, 

And  sped  forward  without  pausing. 

At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam 
Sat  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 

In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

Making  arrow-heads  of  jasper, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony. 

At  his  side,  in  all  her  beauty, 

Sat  the  lovely  Minnehaha, 

Sat  his  daughter,  Laughing  Water, 
Plaiting  mats  of  flags  and  rushes; 


253 

Of  the  past  the  old  man’s  thoughts  were, 
And  the  maiden’s  of  the  future. 

He  was  thinking,  as  he  sat  there, 

Of  the  days  when  with  such  arrows 
He  had  struck  the  deer  and  bison, 

On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow ; 

Shot  the  wild  goose,  Hying  southward, 

On  the  wing,  the  clamorous  Wawa; 
Thinking  of  the  great  war-parties, 

How  they  came  to  buy  his  arrows, 

Could  not  fight  without  his  arrows. 

Ah,  no  more  such  noble  warriors 
Could  be  found  on  earth  as  they  were ! 
Now  the  men  were  all  like  women, 

Only  used  their  tongues  for  weapons ! 

She  was  thinking  of  a hunter, 

From  another  tribe  and  country, 

Young  and  tall  and  very  handsome, 

Who  one  morning,  in  the  Spring-time, 
Came  to  buy  her  father’s  arrows, 

Sat  and  rested  in  the  wigwam, 

Lingered  long  about  the  doorway, 

Looking  back  as  he  departed. 

She  had  heard  her  father  praise  him. 

Praise  his  courage  and  his  wisdom  ; 

Would  he  come  again  for  arrows 
To  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha? 

On  the  mat  her  hands  lay  idle, 

And  her  eyes  were  very  dreamy. 

Through  their  thoughts  they  heard  a foot- 
step, 

Heard  a rustling  in  the  branches, 

And  with  glowing  cheek  and  forehead, 
With  the  deer  upon  his  shoulders, 
Suddenly  from  out  the  woodlands 
Hiawatha  stood  before  them. 

Straight  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Looked  up  gravely  from  his  labor, 

Laid  aside  the  unfinished  arrow, 

Bade  him  enter  at  the  doorway, 

Saying,  as  he  rose  to  meet  him, 

‘ Hiawatha,  you  are  welcome  ! ” 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Hiawatha  laid  his  burden, 

Threw  the  red  deer  from  his  shoulders ; 
And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him, 

Looked  up  from  her  mat  of  rushes. 

Said  with  gentle  look  and  accent. 

You  are  welcome,  Hiawatha  ! ” 

Very  spacious  was  the  wigwam, 


254 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Made  of  deer-skins  dressed  and  whitened, 
With  the  Gods  of  the  Daeotahs 
Drawn  and  painted  on  its  curtains, 

And  so  tall  the  doorway,  hardly 
Hiawatha  stooped  to  enter, 

Hardly  touched  his  eagle-feathers 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway. 

Then  uprose  the  Laughing  Water, 
From  the  ground  fair  Minnehaha, 

Laid  aside  her  mat  unfinished, 

Brought  forth  food  and  set  before  them, 
W ater  brought  them  from  the  brooklet, 
Gave  them  food  in  earthen  vessels, 

Gave  them  drink  in  bowls  of  bass-wood. 
Listened  while  the  guest  was  speaking. 
Listened  while  her  father  answered, 

But  not  once  her  lips  she  opened, 

Not  a single  word  she  uttered. 

Yes,  as  in  a dream  she  listened 
To  the  words  of  Hiawatha, 

As  he  talked  of  old  Nokomis, 

Who  had  nursed  him  in  his  childhood, 

As  he  told  of  his  companions, 

Chibiabos,  the  musician, 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 

And  of  happiness  and  plenty 
In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 

In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful. 

“ After  many  years  of  warfare, 

Many  years  of  strife  and  bloodshed, 

There  is  peace  between  the  Ojibways 
And  the  tribe  of  the  Daeotahs.” 

Thus  continued  Hiawatha, 

And  then  added,  speaking  slowly, 

“ That  this  peace  may  last  forever, 

And  our  hands  be  clasped  more  closely, 
And  our  hearts  be  more  united, 

Give  me  as  my  wife  this  maiden, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 

Loveliest  of  Dacotah  women  ! ” 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Paused  a moment  ere  he  answered, 
Smoked  a little  while  in  silence. 

Looked  at  Hiawatha  proudly, 

Fondly  looked  at  Laughing  Water, 

And  made  answer  very  gravely: 

“ Yes,  if  Minnehaha  wishes  ; 

Let  your  heart  speak,  Minnehaha ! ” 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Seemed  more  lovely,  as  she  stood  there, 


Neither  willing  nor  reluctant, 

As  she  went  to  Hiawatha, 

Softly  took  the  seat  beside  him, 

While  she  said,  and  blushed  to  say  it, 

“ I will  follow  you,  my  husband ! ” 

This  was  Hiawatha’s  wooing ! 

Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 

In  the  land  of  the  Daeotahs ! 

From  the  wigwam  he  departed, 

Leading  with  him  Laughing  Water ; 

Hand  in  hand  they  went  together, 

Through  the  woodland  and  the  meadow. 
Left  the  old  man  standing  lonely 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 

Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  them  from  the  distance, 

Crying  to  them  from  afar  off, 

“ Fare  thee  well,  O Minnehaha  ! ” 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Turned  again  unto  his  labor, 

Sat  down  by  his  sunny  doorway, 
Murmuring  to  himself,  and  saying: 

“ Thus  it  is  our  daughters  leave  us, 

Those  we  love,  and  those  who  love  us, 
Just  when  they  have  learned  to  help  us, 
When  we  ai’e  old  and  lean  upon  them, 
Comes  a youth  with  flaunting  feathers, 
With  his  flute  of  reeds,  a stranger 
Wanders  piping  through  the  village, 
Beckons  to  the  fairest  maiden, 

And  she  follows  where  he  leads  her, 
Leaving  all  things  for  the  stranger ! ” 
Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward, 
Through  interminable  forests, 

Over  meadow,  over  mountain, 

Over  river,  hill,  and  hollow. 

Short  it  seemed  to  Hiawatha, 

Though  they  journeyed  very  slowly, 
Though  his  pace  he  checked  and  slackened 
To  the  steps  of  Laughing  Water. 

Over  wide  and  rushing  rivers 
In  his  arms  he  bore  the  maiden  ; 

Light  he  thought  her  as  a feather, 

As  the  plume  upon  his  head-gear ; 

Cleared  the  tangled  pathway  for  her, 

Bent  aside  the  swaying  branches, 

Made  at  night  a lodge  of  branches, 

And  a bed  with  boughs  of  hemlock, 

And  a fire  before  the  doorway 


HfSNR  Y WADS  WOli  TH  L ON G FELL  0 W. 


255 


With  the  dry  cones  of  the  pine-tree. 

All  the  travelling  winds  went  with  them, 
O’er  the  meadows,  through  the  forest ; 

All  the  stars  of  night  looked  at  them, 
Watched  with  sleepless  eyes  their  slumber  ; 
From  his  ambush  in  the  oak-tree 
Peeped  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 

Watched  with  eager  eyes  the  lovers ; 

And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 

Scampered  from  the  path  before  them, 
Peering,  peeping  from  his  burrow, 

Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches, 

Watched  with  curious  eyes  the  lovers. 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward ! 

All  the  birds  sang  loud  and  sweetly 
Songs  of  happiness  and  heart’ s-ease ; 

Sang  the  blue-bird,  the  Owaissa, 

“ Happy  are  you,  Hiawatha, 

Having  such  a wife  to  love  you  ! ” 

Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 

“Happy  are  you,  Laughing  Water, 

Having  such  a noble  husband  ! ” 


From  the  sky  the  sun  benignant 
Looked  upon  them  through  the  branches, 
Saying  to  them,  “ O my  children, 

Love  is  sunshine,  hate  is  shadow, 

Life  is  checkered  shade  and  sunshine, 

Rule  by  love,  O Hiawatha ! ” 

From  the  sky  the  moon  looked  at  them. 
Filled  the  lodge  with  mystic  splendors, 
Whispered  to  them,  “ O my  children, 

Day  is  restless,  night  is  quiet, 

Man  imperious,  woman  feeble  ; 

Half  is  mine,  although  I follow  ; 

Rule  by  patience,  Laughing  Water!” 

Thus  it  was  they  journeyed  homeward ; 
Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis 
Brought  the  moonlight,  starlight,  firelight, 
Brought  the  sunshine  of  his  people, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 

Handsomest  of  all  the  women 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

In  the  land  of  handsome  women. 


256 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


XI. 

hiawatha's  wedding-feast. 


You  shall  hear  how  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
How  the  handsome  Yenadizze 
Danced  at  Hiawatha’s  wedding; 

How  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 

He  the  sweetest  of  musicians, 

Sang  his  songs  of  love  and  longing  ; 
How  Iagoo,  the  great  boaster, 

He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 

Told  his  tales  of  strange  adventure, 

That  the  feast  might  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  might  pass  more  gayly, 
And  the  guests  be  more  contented. 

Sumptuous  was  the  feast  Nokomis 
Made  at  Hiawatha’s  wedding; 

All  the  bowls  were  made  of  bass-wood, 
White  and  polished  very  smoothly, 

All  the  spoons  of  horn  of  bison, 

Black  and  polished  very  smoothly. 

SI  le  had  sent  through  all  the  village 
Messengers  with  wands  of  willow, 

As  a sign  of  invitation, 

As  a token  of  the  feasting ; 

And  the  wedding  guests  assembled, 

Clad  in  all  their  richest  raiment, 

Robes  of  fur  and  belts  of  wampum, 
Splendid  with  their  paint  and  plumage. 
Beautiful  with  beads  and  tassels. 

First  they  ate  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
And  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 

Caught  and  cooked  by  old  Nokomis; 
Then  on  pemican  they  feasted, 

Pemican  and  buffalo  marrow, 

Haunch  of  deer  and  hump  of  bison. 
Yellow  cakes  of  the  Mondamin, 

And  the  wild  rice  of  the  river. 

But  the  gracious  Hiawatha, 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 

And  the  careful  old  Nokomis, 

Tasted  not  the  food  before  them, 

Only  waited  on  the  others, 

Only  served  their  guests  in  silence. 

And  when  all  the  guests  had  finished, 
Old  Nokomis,  brisk  and  busy, 

From  an  ample  pouch  of  otter, 

Filled  the  red-stone  pipes  for  smoking 


With  tobacco  from  the  South-land, 

Mixed  with  bark  of  the  red  willow, 

And  with  herbs  and  leaves  of  fragrance. 

Then  she  said,  “ O Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Dance  for  us  your  merry  dances, 

Dance  the  Beggar’s  Dance  to  please  us, 
That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 

That  the  time  may  pass  more  gayly, 

And  our  guests  be  more  contented ! ” 

Then  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

He  the  idle  Yenadizze, 

He  the  merry  mischief-maker, 

Whom  the  people  called  the  Storm-Fool, 
Rose  among  the  guests  assembled. 

Skilled  was  he  in  sports  and  pastimes, 

In  the  merry  dance  of  snow-shoes, 

In  the  play  of  quoits  and  ball-play  ; 

Skilled  was  he  in  games  of  hazard, 

In  all  games  of  skill  and  hazard, 
Pugasaing,  the  Bowl  and  Counters, 
Kuntassoo,  the  Game  of  Plum-stones. 

Though  the  warriors  called  him  Faint- 
Heart, 

Called  him  coward,  Shaugodaya, 

Idler,  gambler,  Yenadizze, 

Little  heeded  he  their  jesting, 

Little  cared  he  for  their  insults, 

For  the  women  and  the  maidens 
Loved  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

He  was  dressed  in  shirt  of  doeskin, 
White  and  soft,  and  fringed  with  ermine, 
All  inwrought  with  beads  of  wampum  ; 

He  was  dressed  in  deer-skin  leggings, 
Fringed  with  hedgehog  quills  and  ermine, 
And  in  moccasins  of  buck-skin, 

Thick  with  quills  and  beads  embroidered. 
On  his  head  were  plumes  of  swan’s  down, 
On  his  heels  were  tails  of  foxes, 

In  one  hand  a fan  of  feathers, 

And  a pipe  was  in  the  other. 

Barred  with  streaks  of  red  and  yellow, 
Streaks  of  blue  and  bright  vermilion. 

Shone  the  face  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

From  his  forehead  fell  his  tresses. 

Smooth,  and  parted  like  a woman's, 


HKNR  Y WADS  WOR  TH  L ON  OF  EL  L 0 W. 


257 


Shining  bright  with  oil,  and  plaited, 
Hung  with  braids  of  scented  grasses, 

As  among  the  guests  assembled, 

To  the  sound  of  flutes  and  singing, 

To  the  sound  of  drums  and  voices, 

Rose  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
And  began  his  mystic  dances. 

First  he  danced  a solemn  measure, 
Very  slow  in  step  and  gesture, 

In  and  out  among  the  pine-trees, 
Through  the  shadows  and  the  sunshine, 
Treading  softly  like  a panther. 

Then  more  swiftly  and  still  swifter, 
Whirling,  spinning  round  in  circles, 
Leaping  o’er  the  guests  assembled. 
Eddying  round  and  round  the  wigwam, 


Till  the  leaves  went  whirling  with  him, 
Till  the  dust  and  wind  together 
Swept  in  eddies  round  about  him. 

Then  along  the  sandy  margin 
Of  the  lake,  the  Big  -Sea-Water, 

On  he  sped  with  frenzied  gestures, 
Stamped  upon  the  sand,  and  tossed  it 
Wildly  in  the  air  around  him  ; 

Till  the  wind  became  a whirlwind, 

Till  the  sand  was  blown  and  sifted 
Like  great  snowdrifts  o’er  the  landscape, 
Heaping  all  the  shores  with  Sand  Dunes, 
Sand  Hills  of  the  N agow  Wudjoo  ! 

Thus  the  merry  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Danced  his  Beggar’s  Dance  to  please  them, 
And,  returning,  sat  down  laughing 


There  among  the  guests  assembled, 
Sat  and  fanned  himself  serenely 
With  his  fan  of  turkey-feathers. 

Then  they  said  to  Chibiabos, 

To  the  friend  of  Hiawatha, 

To  the  sweetest  of  all  singers, 

To  the  best  of  all  musicians, 

Sing  to  us,  O Chibiabos  ! 


Songs  of  love  and  songs  of  longing, 
That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  may  pass  more  gayly, 
And  our  guests  be  more  contented ! ” 
And  the  gentle  Chibiabos 
Sang  in  accents  sweet  and  tender, 
Sang  in  tones  of  deep  emotion, 

Songs  of  love  and  songs  of  longing; 


258 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Looking  still  at  Hiawatha, 

Looking  at  fair  Laughing  Water, 

Sang  he  softly,  sang  in  this  wise  : 

“ Onaway  ! Awake,  beloved  ! 

Tlion  the  wild-flower  of  the  forest ! 

Thou  the  wild-bird  of  the  prairie  ! 

Tlion  with  eyes  so  soft  and  fawn-like ! 

“ If  thou  only  lookest  at  me, 

I am  happy,  1 am  happy, 

As  the  lilies  of  the  prairie, 

When  they  feel  the  dew  upon  them  ! 

“ Sweet  thy  breath  is  as  the  fragrance 
Of  the  wild-flowers  in  the  morning, 

As  their  fragrance  is  at  evening, 

In  the  Moon  when  leaves  are  falling. 

“ Does  not  all  the  blood  within  me 
Leap  to  meet  thee,  leap  to  meet  thee, 
As  the  springs  to  meet  the  sunshine, 

In  the  Moon  when  nights  are  brightest? 


“ Onaway ! my  heart  sings  to  thee, 
Sings  with  joy  when  thou  art  near  me, 
As  the  sighing,  singing  branches 
In  the  pleasant  Moon  of  Strawberries  ! 

“ When  thou  art  not  pleased,  beloved, 
Then  my  heart  is  sad  and  darkened, 

As  the  shining  river  darkens 
When  the  clouds  drop  shadows  on  it ! 


“ When  thou  smilest,  my  beloved. 

Then  my  troubled  heart  is  brightened, 

As  in  sunshine  gleam  the  ripples 
That  the  cold  wind  makes  in  rivers. 

“ Smiles  the  earth,  and  smile  the  water; 
Smile  the  cloudless  skies  above  11s, 

But  I lose  the  way  of  smiling 
When  thou  art  no  longer  near  me ! 

“ I myself,  myself  ! behold  me ! 

Blood  of  my  beating  heart,  behold  me  ! 
Oh  awake,  awake,  beloved  ! 

Onaway  ! awake,  beloved  ! ” 

Thus  the  gentle  Chibiabos 
Sang  his  song  of  love  and  longing  ; 

And  Iagoo,  the  great  boaster, 

He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 

He  the  friend  of  old  Nokomis, 

Jealous  of  the  sweet  musician, 

Jealous  of  the  applause  they  gave  him, 
Saw  in  all  the  eyes  around  him, 

Saw  in  all  their  looks  and  gestures, 

That  the  wedding  guests  assembled 
Longed  to  hear  his  pleasant  stories, 

1 1 is  immeasurable  falsehoods. 

Very  boastful  was  Iagoo  ; 

Never  heard  he  an  adventure 
But  himself  had  met  a greater ; 

Never  any  deed  of  daring 
But  himself  had  done  a bolder ; 

Never  any  marvellous  story 
But  himself  could  tell  a stranger. 

Would  you  listen  to  his  boasting, 
Would  you  only  give  him  credence, 

No  one  ever  shot  an  arrow 
Half  so  far  and  high  as  he  had  ; 

Ever  caught  so  many  fishes, 

Ever  killed  so  many  reindeer, 

Ever  trapped  so  many  beaver ! 

None  could  run  so  fast  as  he  could, 
None  could  dive  so  deep  as  he  could, 

None  could  swim  so  far  as  he  could  ; 
None  had  made  so  many  journeys, 

None  had  seen  so  many  wonders, 

As  this  wonderful  Iagoo, 

As  this  marvellous  story-teller  ! 

Thus  his  name  became  a by-word 
And  a jest  among  the  people ; 

And  whene’er  a boastful  hunter 
Praised  his  own  address  too  highlv, 

Or  a warrior,  home  returning, 


HEN  It  Y XV  A DS  W OR  TH  LON  GFELL  0 W. 


259 


Talked  too  much  of  his  achievements, 
Ail  his  hearers  cried,  “ Iagoo  ! 

Here’s  Iagoo  come  among  us!" 

He  it  was  who  carved  the  cradle 
Of  the  little  Hiawatha, 

Carved  its  framework  out  of  linden, 
Bound  it  strong  with  reindeer  sinews  ; 
He  it  was  who  taught  him  later 
How  to  make  his  bows  and  arrows, 
How  to  make  the  bows  of  ash-tree, 
And  the  arrows  of  the  oak-tree. 

So  among  the  guests  assembled 
At  my  Hiawatha's  wedding 


Sat  Iagoo,  old  and  ugly, 

Sat  the  marvellous  story-teller. 

And  they  said,  “ O good  Iagoo, 

Tell  us  now  a tale  of  wonder, 

Tell  us  of  some  strange  adventure, 
That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  may  pass  more  gayly, 
And  our  guests  be  more  contented  ! " 
And  Iagoo  answered  straightway, 

“ You  shall  hear  a tale  of  wonder, 

You  shall  hear  the  strange  adventures 
Of  Osseo,  the  Magician, 

From  the  Evening  Star  descended.  ’ 


XII. 

THE  SON  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR. 


Can  it  be  the  sun  descending 
O’er  the  level  plain  of  water  ? 

Or  the  red  swan  floating,  flying, 
Wounded  by  the  magic  arrow, 
Staining  all  the  waves  with  crimson, 
With  the  crimson  of  its  life-blood. 
Filling  all  the  air  with  splendor. 
With  the  splendor  of  its  plumage  ? 

Yes ; it  is  the  sun  descending, 
Sinking  down  into  the  water; 


All  the  sky  is  stained  with  purple. 

All  the  water  flushed  with  crimson ! 

No ; it  is  the  Red  Swan  floating, 

Diving  down  beneath  the  water ; 

To  the  sky  its  wings  are  lifted. 

With  its  blood  the  waves  are  reddened ! 

Over  it  the  Star  of  Evening- 
Melts  and  trembles  through  the  purple, 
Hangs  suspended  in  the  twilight. 

No ; it  is  a bead  of  wampum 


260 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


On  the  robes  of  the  Great  Spirit 
As  he  passes  through  the  twilight, 

Walks  in  silence  through  the  heavens. 

This  with  joy  beheld  Iagoo 
And  he  said  in  haste  : u Behold  it ! 

See  the  sacred  Star  of  Evening  ! 

You  shall  hear  a tale  of  wonder, 

Hear  the  story  of  Osseo, 

Son  of  the  Evening  Star,  Osseo  ! 

“ Once,  in  days  no  more  remembered, 
Ages  nearer  the  beginning, 

When  the  heavens  were  closer  to  us. 

And  the  Gods  were  more  familiar, 

In  the  North-land  lived  a hunter, 

With  ten  young  and  comely  daughters, 
Tall  and  lithe  as  wands  of  willow; 

Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 

She  the  wilful  and  the  wayward, 

She  the  silent,  dreamy  maiden, 

Was  the  fairest  of  the  sisters. 

“All  these  women  married  warriors, 
Married  brave  and  haughty  husbands ; 

Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 

Laughed  and  flouted  all  her  lovers, 

All  her  young  and  handsome  suitors, 

And  then  married  old  Osseo, 

Old  Osseo,  poor  and  ugly, 

Broken  with  age  and  weak  with  coughing, 
Always  coughing  like  a squirrel. 

“ Ah,  but  beautiful  within  him 
Was  the  spirit  of  Osseo, 

From  the  Evening  Star  descended, 

Star  of  Evening,  Star  of  Woman, 

Star  of  tenderness  and  passion ! 

All  its  fire  was  in  his  bosom, 

All  its  beauty  in  his  spirit, 

All  its  mystery  in  his  being, 

All  its  splendor  in  his  language ! 

“ And  her  lovers,  the  rejected, 

Handsome  men  with  belts  of  wampum, 
Handsome  men  with  paints  and  feathers, 
Pointed  at  her  in  derision, 

Followed  her  with  jest  and  laughter. 

But  she  said : ‘ I care  not  for  you, 

Care  not  for  your  belts  of  wampum, 

Care  not  for  your  paint  and  feathers, 

Care  not  for  your  jests  and  laughter ; 

I am  happy  with  Osseo ! ’ 

“ Once  to  some  great  feast  invited, 
Through  the  damp  and  dusk  of  evening, 


Walked  together  the  ten  sisters, 

Walked  together  with  their  husbands; 
Slowly  followed  old  Osseo, 

With  fair  Oweenee  beside  him  ; 

All  the  others  chatted  gaylv, 

These  two  only  walked  in  silence. 

“ At  the  western  sky  Osseo 
Gazed  intent,  as  if  imploring, 

( )ften  stopped  and  gazed  imploring 
At  the  trembling  Star  of  Evening, 

A t the  tender  Star  of  W oman ; 

And  they  heard  him  murmur  softly, 

‘ Ah , showain  nemeshiu,  JYosa  ! 

Pity,  pity  me,  my  father ! ’ 

“ ‘ Listen  ! ’ said  the  eldest  sister, 

‘He  is  praying  to  his  father! 

What  a pity  that  the  old  man 
Does  not  stumble  in  the  pathway, 

Does  not  break  his  neck  by  falling!’ 

And  they  laughed  till  all  the  forest 
Rang  with  their  unseemly  laughter. 

“ On  their  pathway  through  the  wood- 
lands 

Lay  an  oak,  by  storms  uprooted, 

Lay  the  great  trunk  of  an  oak-tree, 
Buried  half  in  leaves  and  mosses, 
Mouldering,  crumbling,  huge  and  hollow. 
And  Osseo,  when  he  saw  it, 

Gave  a shout,  a cry  of  anguish, 

Leaped  into  its  yawning  cavern, 

At  one  end  went  in  an  old  man, 

Wasted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly; 

From  the  other  came  a young  man, 

Tall  and  straight  and  strong  and  hand- 
some. 

“ Thus  Osseo  was  transfigured, 

Thus  restored  to  youth  and  beauty ; 

But,  alas  for  good  Osseo, 

And  for  Oweenee,  the  faithful! 

Strangely,  too.  was  she  transfigured. 
Changed  into  a weak  old  woman, 

With  a staff  she  tottered  onward, 

Wasted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly ! 

And  the  sisters  and  their  husbands 
Laughed  until  the  echoing  forest 
Rang  with  their  unseemly  laughter. 

“ But  Osseo  turned  not  from  her, 
Walked  with  slower  step  beside  her, 

Took  her  hand,  as  brown  and  withered 
As  an  oak-leaf  is  in  Winter, 


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261 


Called  her  sweetheart,  jNenemoosha, 
Soothed  her  with  soft  words  of  kindness, 
Till  they  reached  the  lodge  of  feasting, 
Till  they  sat  down  in  the  wigwam, 
Sacred  to  the  Star  of  Evening, 

To  the  tender  Star  of  Woman. 

“ Wrapt  in  visions,  lost  in  dreaming, 
At  the  bancpiet  sat  Osseo ; 

All  were  merry,  all  were  happy, 

All  were  joyous  but  Osseo. 

Neither  food  nor  drink  he  tasted. 

Neither  did  he  speak  nor  listen. 

But  as  one  bewildered  sat  he, 

Looking  dreamily  and  sadly, 

First  at  Oweenee,  then  upward 
At  the  gleaming  sky  above  them. 

“ Then  a voice  was  heard,  a whisper, 
Coming  from  the  starry  distance, 

Coming  from  the  empty  vastness, 

Low,  and  musical,  and  tender  ; 

And  the  voice  said : ‘ O Osseo ! 

O my  son,  my  best  beloved ! 

Broken  are  the  spells  that  bound  you, 
All  the  charms  of  the  magician, 

All  the  magic  powers  of  evil ; 

Come  to  me ; ascend,  Osseo ! 


“ ‘ Taste  the  food  that  stands  before  you : 
It  is  blessed  and  enchanted, 

It  has  magic  virtues  in  it, 

It  will  change  you  to  a spirit. 

All  your  bowls  and  all  your  kettles 
Shall  be  wood  and  clay  no  longer; 

But  the  bowls  be  changed  to  wampum. 
And  the  kettles  shall  be  silver; 

They  shall  shine  like  shells  of  scarlet, 

Like  the  fire  shall  gleam  and  glimmer. 

“ ‘ And  the  women  shall  no  longer 
Bear  the  dreary  doom  of  labor, 

But  be  changed  to  birds,  and  glisten 
With  the  beauty  of  the  starlight. 

Painted  Avitli  the  dusky  splendors 
Of  the  skies  and  clouds  of  evening!- ! ’ 

“ What  Osseo  heard  as  whispers, 

What  as  words  he  comprehended, 

Was  but  music  to  the  others, 

Music  as  of  birds  afar  off, 

Of  the  whippoorwill  afar  off, 

Of  the  lonely  Wawonaissa 
Singing  in  the  darksome  forest. 

“ Then  the  lodge  began  to  tremble, 
Straight  began  to  shake  and  tremble, 

And  they  felt  it  rising,  rising, 


262 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Slowly  through  the  air  ascending, 

From  the  darkness  of  the  tree-tops 
Forth  into  the  dewy  starlight, 

Till  it  passed  the  topmost  branches ; 

And  behold ! the  wooden  dishes 
All  were  changed  to  shells  of  scarlet ! 

And  behold ! the  earthen  kettles 
All  were  changed  to  bowls  of  silver ! 

And  the  roof-poles  of  the  wigwam 
Were  as  glittering  rods  of  silver, 

And  the  roof  of  bark  upon  them 
As  the  shining  shards  of  beetles. 

“ Then  Osseo  gazed  around  him. 

And  he  saw  the  nine  fair  sisters, 

All  the  sisters  and  their  husbands, 

Changed  to  birds  of  various  plumage. 

Some  were  jays  and  some  were  magpies, 
Others  thrushes,  others  blackbirds ; 

And  they  hopped,  and  sang,  and  twittered, 
Perked  and  fluttered  all  their  feathers. 
Strutted  in  their  shining  plumage, 

And  their  tails  like  fans  unfolded. 

“ Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 
w as  not  changed,  but  sat  in  silence, 
Wasted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly, 

Looking  sadly  at  the  others ; 

'bill  Osseo,  gazing  upward, 

Gave  another  cry  of  anguish, 

Such  a cry  as  he  had  uttered 
By  the  oak-tree,  in  the  forest. 

“ Then  returned  her  youth  and  beauty, 
And  her  soiled  and  tattered  garments 
Were  transformed  to  robes  of  ermine, 

And  her  staff  became  a feather, 

Yes,  a shining  silver  feather! 

“ And  again  the  wigwam  trembled, 
Swayed  and  rushed  through  airy  currents, 
Through  transparent  cloud  and  vapor 
And  amid  celestial  splendors 
( )n  the  Evening  Star  alighted, 

As  a snow-flake  falls  on  snow-flake, 

As  a leaf  drops  on  a river, 

As  the  thistle-down  on  water. 

“ Forth  with  cheerful  words  of  welcome 
Came  the  father  of  Osseo, 

He  with  radiant  locks  of  silver, 

He  with  eyes  serene  and  tender. 

And  he  said  : 1 My  son,  Osseo, 

Hang  the  cage  of  birds  you  bring  there, 
Hang  the  cage  with  rods  of  silver, 


And  the  birds  with  glistening  feathers, 

At  the  doorway  of  my  wigwam.” 

“At  the  door  he  hung  the  bird-cage, 

And  they  entered  in  and  gladly 
Listened  to  Osseo’s  father, 

Ruler  of  the  Star  of  Evening, 

As  he  said  : ‘ O my  Osseo  ! 

I have  had  compassion  on  you. 

Given  you  back  your  youth  and  beauty, 
Into  birds  of  various  plumage 
Changed  your  sisters  and  their  husbands  ; 
Changed  them  thus  because  they  mocked  you 
In  the  figure  of  the  old  man, 

In  that  aspect  sad  and  wrinkled, 

Could  not  see  your  heart  of  passion, 

Could  not  see  your  youth  immortal  ; 

Only  Oweenee,  the  faithful, 

Saw  your  naked  heart  and  loved  you. 

“ ‘ In  the  lodge  that  glimmers  yonder. 

In  the  little  star  that  twinkles 
Through  the  vapors,  on  the  left  hand, 
Lives  the  envious  Evil  Spirit, 

The  Wabeno,  the  magician, 

Who  transformed  you  to  an  old  man. 

Take  heed  lest  his  beams  fall  on  you, 

For  the  rays  he  darts  around  him 
Are  the  power  of  his  enchantment, 

Are  the  arrows  that  he  uses.’ 

“ Many  years,  in  peace  and  cpiiet. 

On  the  peaceful  Star  of  Evening- 
Dwelt  Osseo  with  his  father; 

Many  years,  in  song  and  flutter, 

At  the  doorway  of  the  wigwam, 

Hung  the  cage  with  rods  of  silver, 

And  fair  Oweenee,  the  faithful, 

Bore  a son  unto  Osseo, 

With  the  beauty  of  his  mother, 

With  the  courage  of  his  father. 

“ And  the  boy  grew  up  and  prospered, 
And  Osseo,  to  delight  him, 

Made  him  little  bows  and  arrows, 

Opened  the  great  cage  of  silver, 

And  let  loose  his  aunts  and  uncles. 

All  those  birds  with  glossy  feathers, 

For  his  little  son  to  shoot  at. 

“ Round  and  round  they  wheeled  and 
darted, 

Filled  the  Evening  Star  with  music, 

With  their  songs  of  joy  and  freedom  ; 
Filled  the  Evening  Star  with  splendor, 


HENR  Y WADS  WOR TH  L ONGFELL  0 W. 


26 


With  the  fluttering  of  their  plumage  ; 

Till  the  boy,  the  little  hunter, 

Bent  his  bow  and  shot  an  arrow, 

Shot  a swift  and  fatal  arrow, 

And  a bird,  with  shining  feathers, 

At  his  feet  fell  wounded  sorely. 

“ But,  O wondrous  transformation  ! 

'T  was  no  bird  he  saw  before  him, 

"T  was  a beautiful  young  woman, 

With  the  arrow  in  her  bosom  ! 

“When  her  blood  fell  on  the  planet, 

On  the  sacred  Star  of  Evening, 

Broken  was  the  spell  of  magic, 

Powerless  was  the  strange  enchantment, 
And  the  youth,  the  fearless  bowman, 
Suddenly  felt  himself  descending, 

Held  by  unseen  hands,  but  sinking 
Downward  through  the  empty  spaces, 
Downward  through  the  clouds  and  vapors, 
Till  he  rested  on  an  island, 

On  an  island,  green  and  grassy, 

Yonder  in  the  Big-Sea-Water. 

“ After  him  he  saw  descending 
All  the  birds  with  shining  feathers, 
Fluttering,  falling,  wafted  downward, 

Like  the  painted  leaves  of  Autumn  ; 

And  the  lodge  with  poles  of  silver, 

With  its  roof  like  wings  of  beetles, 

Like  the  shining  shards  of  beetles. 

By  the  winds  of  heaven  uplifted, 

Slowly  sank:  upon  the  island, 

Bringing  back  the  good  Osseo, 

Bringing  Oweenee,  the  faithful. 

“ Then  the  birds,  again  transfigured, 
Reassumed  the  shape  of  mortals, 

Took  their  shape,  but  not  their  stature  ; 
They  remained  as  Little  People, 

Like  the  pygmies,  the  Puk-Wudjies, 

And  on  pleasant  nights  of  Summer, 

When  the  Evening:  Star  was  shining, 

Hand  in  hand  they  danced  together 
On  the  island’s  craggy  headlands, 

On  the  sand-beach  low  and  level. 

“ Still  their  glittering  lodge  is  seen  there, 
On  the  tranquil  Summer  evenings, 

And  upon  the  shore  the  fisher 
Sometimes  hears  their  happy  voices, 

Sees  them  dancing  in  the  starlight ! ” 

When  the  story  was  completed, 

When  the  wondrous  tale  was  ended, 


Looking  round  upon  li is  listeners, 
Solemnly  Iagoo  added : 

“ There  are  great  men,  I have  known  such, 
Whom  their  people  understand  not, 
Whom  they  even  make  a jest  of, 

Scoff  and  jeer  at  in  derision. 

From  the  story  of  Osseo 

Let  us  learn  the  fate  of  jesters  ! ” 

All  the  wedding  guests  delighted 
Listened  to  the  marvellous  story, 

Listened  laughing  and  applauding, 

And  they  whispered  to  each  other  : 

“ Does  he  mean  himself,  I wonder  ? 

And  are  we  the  aunts  and  uncles?” 
Then  again  sang  Chibiabos, 

Sang  a song  of  love  and  longing, 

In  those  accents  sweet  and  tender, 

In  those  tones  of  pensive  sadness, 

Sang  a maiden’s  lamentation 
For  her  lover,  her  Algonquin. 

“ When  I think  of  my  beloved, 

Ah  me  ! think  of  my  beloved. 

When  my  heart  is  thinking  of  him, 

O my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

“ Ah  me  ! when  I parted  from  him, 
Round  my  neck  he  hung  the  wampum, 
As  a pledge,  the  snow-white  wampum, 

O my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

“ I will  go  with  you,  he  whispered, 

Ah  me ! to  your  native  country  ; 

Let  me  go  with  you,  he  whispered, 

O my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

“ Far  away,  away,  I answered, 

Very  far  away,  I answered, 

Ah  me  ! is  my  native  country, 

O my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

“ When  I looked  back  to  behold  him, 
Where  we  parted,  to  behold  him, 

After  me  he  still  was  gazing, 

O my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

“ By  the  tree  he  still  was  standing, 

By  the  fallen  tree  was  standing, 

That  had  dropped  into  the  water, 

O my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

“ When  I think  of  my  beloved, 

Ah  me ! think  of  my  beloved. 

When  my  heart  is  thinking  of  him, 

O my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! ” 

Such  was  Hiawatha’s  Wedding, 

Such  the  dance  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


264 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Such  the  story  of  Iagoo, 

Such  the  songs  of  Chibiabos  ; 

Thus  the  wedding  banquet  ended, 


And  the  wedding  guests  departed. 
Leaving  Hiawatha  happy 
With  the  night  and  Minnehaha. 


XIII. 

BLESSING  THE  CORNFIELDS. 


Sing,  O Song  of  Hiawatha, 

( )f  the  happy  days  that  followed, 

In  the  land  of  the  O jib  ways, 

In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful  ! 

Sing  the  mysteries  of  Mondamin, 

Sing  the  Blessing  of  the  Cornfields  ! 

Buried  was  the  bloody  hatchet, 

Buried  was  the  dreadful  war-club, 

Buried  were  all  warlike  weapons, 

And  the  war-cry  was  forgotten. 

There  was  peace  among  the  nations  ; 
Lbunolested  roved  the  hunters, 

Built  the  birch  canoe  for  sailing, 

Caught  the  fish  in  lake  and  river, 

Shot  the  deer  and  trapped  the  beaver  ; 
Unmolested  worked  the  women, 

Made  their  sugar  from  the  maple, 
Gathered  wild  rice  in  the  meadows, 
Dressed  the  skins  of  deer  and  beaver. 

All  around  the  happy  village 
Stood  the  maize-fields,  green  and  shining, 
W aved  the  green  plumes  of  Mondamin, 

\\  hived  his  soft  and  sunny  tresses, 

Filling  all  the  land  with  plenty. 

"T  was  the  women  who  in  Springtime 
Planted  the  broad  fields  and  fruitful. 
Buried  in  the  earth  Mondamin ; 

’T  was  the  women  who  in  Autumn 
Stripped  the  yellow  husks  of  harvest, 
Stripped  the  garments  from  Mondamin, 
Even  as  Hiawatha  taught  them. 

Once,  when  all  the  maize  was  planted, 
Hiawatha,  wise  and  thoughtful, 

Spake  and  said  to  Minnehaha, 

To  his  wife,  the  Laughing  Water: 

“ You  shall  bless  to-night  the  cornfields, 
Draw  a magic  circle  round  them, 

To  protect  them  from  destruction, 

Blast  of  mildew,  blight  of  insect, 
Wagemin,  the  thief  of  cornfields, 
Paimosaid,  who  steals  the  maize-ear ! 


“ In  the  night,  when  all  is  silence, 

In  the  night,  when  all  is  darkness, 

When  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin, 
Shuts  the  doors  of  all  the  wigwams, 

So  that  not  an  ear  can  hear  you, 

So  that  not  an  eye  can  see  you, 

Rise  up  from  your  bed  in  silence, 

Lay  aside  your  garments  wholly, 

Walk  around  the  fields  you  planted, 
Round  the  borders  of  the  corn-fields, 
Covered  by  your  tresses  only, 

Robed  with  darkness  as  a garment. 

“ Thus  the  fields  shall  be  more  fruitful, 
And  the  passing  of  your  footsteps 
Draw  a magic  circle  round  them, 

So  that  neither  blight  nor  mildew, 

Neither  burrowing  worm  nor  insect, 

Shall  pass  o'er  the  magic  circle  ; 

Not  the  dragon-fly,  Kwo-ne-she, 

Nor  the  spider,  Subbekashe, 

Nor  the  grasshopper,  Pah-puk-keena, 

Nor  the  mighty  caterpillar, 
Way-muk-kwana,  with  the  bear-skin, 

King  of  all  the  caterpillars  ! ” 

On  the  tree-tops  near  the  cornfields 
Sat  the  hungry  crows  and  ravens, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 

With  his  band  of  black  marauders. 

And  they  laughed  at  Hiawatha, 

"Fill  the  tree-tops  shook  with  laughter, 
With  their  melancholy  laughter, 

At  the  words  of  Hiawatha. 

“Hear  him!”  said  they;  “hear  the  Wise 
Man, 

Hear  the  plots  of  Hiawatha  ! ” 

When  the  noiseless  night  descended 
Broad  and  dark  o’er  field  and  forest, 

When  the  mournful  Wawonaissa, 
Sorrowing  sang  among  the  hemlocks, 

And  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin, 

Shut  the  doors  of  all  the  wigwams, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


265 


From  her  bed  rose  Laughing  Water, 

Laid  aside  her  garments  wholly, 

And  with  darkness  clothed  and  guarded, 
Unashamed  and  unaffrighted, 

Walked  securely  round  the  cornfields, 

Drew  the  sacred,  magic  circle 

Of  her  footprints  round  the  cornfields. 

No  one  but  the  Midnight  only 
Saw  her  beauty  in  the  darkness, 

No  one  but  the  Wawonaissa 
Heard  the  panting  of  her  bosom  ; 
Guskewau,  the  darkness,  wrapped  her 
Closely  in  his  sacred  mantle, 

So  that  none  might  see  her  beauty, 

So  that  none  might  boast,  “I  saw  her!” 
On  the  morrow,  as  the  day  dawned, 
Ivahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 

Gathered  all  his  black  marauders, 

Crows  and  blackbirds,  jays  and  ravens, 
Clamorous  on  the  dusky  tree-tops, 

And  descended,  fast  and  fearless, 

On  the  fields  of  Hiawatha, 

On  the  grave  of  the  Mondamin. 

“ We  will  drag  Mondamin,”  said  they, 
“ From  the  grave  where  he  is  buried, 

Spite  of  all  the  magic  circles 
Laughing  Water  draws  around  it, 

34 


Spite  of  all  the  sacred  footprints 
Minnehaha  stamps  upon  it ! ” 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha, 

Ever  thoughtful,  careful,  watchful, 

Had  o’erheard  the  scornful  laughter 
When  they  mocked  him  from  the  tree-tops. 

“ Kaw  ! ” he  said,  “ my  friends  the  ravens  ! 
Kahgahgee,  my  King  of  Ravens ! 

I will  teach  you  all  a lesson 
That  shall  not  be  soon  forgotten ! ” 

He  had  risen  before  the  daybreak, 

He  had  spread  o’er  all  the  cornfields 
Snares  to  catch  the  black  marauders, 

And  was  lying  now  in  ambush 
In  the  neighboring  grove  of  pine-trees, 
Waiting  for  the  crows  and  blackbirds, 
Waiting  for  the  jays  and  ravens. 

Soon  they  came  with  caw  and  clamor, 
Rush  of  wings  and  cry  of  voices, 

To  their  work  of  devastation, 

Settling  down  upon  the  cornfields, 

Delving  deep  with  beak  and  talon, 

For  the  body  of  Mondamin. 

And  with  all  their  craft  and  cunning, 

All  their  skill  in  wiles  of  warfare, 

They  perceived  no  danger  near  them, 

Till  their  claws  became  entangled, 


266 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Till  they  found  themselves  imprisoned 
In  the  snares  of  Hiawatha. 

From  his  place  of  ambush  came  he, 
Striding  terrible  among  them, 

And  so  awful  was  his  aspect 
That  the  bravest  quailed  with  terror. 
Without  mercy  he  destroyed  them 
Right  and  left,  by  ten  and  twenties, 
And  their  wretched,  lifeless  bodies 
II  ung  aloft  on  poles  for  scarecrows 
Round  the  consecrated  cornfields, 

As  a signal  of  his  vengeance. 

As  a warning  to  marauders. 

Only  Kahgahgee,  the  leader, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 

He  alone  was  spared  among  them 
As  a hostage  for  his  people. 

With  his  prisoner-string  he  bound  him, 
Led  him  captive  to  his  wigwam, 

Tied  him  fast  with  cords  of  elm-bark 
To  the  ridge-pole  of  his  wigwam. 

“ Kahgahgee,  my  raven  ! ” said  he, 
You  the  leader  of  the  robbers, 

You  the  plotter  of  this  mischief, 

The  contriver  of  this  outrage, 

I will  keep  you,  I will  hold  you, 


As  a hostage  for  your  people, 

As  a pledge  of  good  behavior ! ” 

And  he  left  him,  grim  and  sulky, 

Sitting  in  the  morning  sunshine 
On  the  summit  of  the  wigwam, 

Croaking  fiercely  his  displeasure, 

Flapping  his  great  sable  pinions, 

Vainly  struggling  for  his  freedom, 

Vainly  calling  on  his  people ! 

Summer  passed,  and  Shawondasee 
Breathed  his  sighs  o’er  all  the  landscape, 
From  the  South-land  sent  his  ardors, 
Wafted  kisses  warm  and  tender ; 

And  the  maize-field  grew  and  ripened, 

Till  it  stood  in  all  the  splendor 
Of  its  garments  green  and  yellow, 

Of  its  tassels  and  its  plumage, 

And  the  maize-ears  full  and  shining 
Gleamed  from  bursting  sheaths  of  verdure, 
Then  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 

Spake,  and  said  to  Minnehaha : 

“ 'T  is  the  Moon  when  leaves  are  falling  ; 

All  the  wild-rice  has  been  gathered, 

And  the  maize  is  ripe  and  ready ; 

Let  us  gather  in  the  harvest, 

Let  us  wrestle  with  Mondamin, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


267 


Strip  him  of  his  plumes  and  tassels, 

Of  his  garments  green  and  yellow ! ” 

And  the  merry  Laughing  Water 
Went  rejoicing  from  the  Wigwam, 

With  Nokomis,  old  and  wrinkled, 

And  they  called  the  women  round  them, 
Called  the  young  men  and  the  maidens, 
To  the  harvest  of  the  cornfields, 

To  the  husking  of  the  maize-ear. 

On  the  border  of  the  forest, 
Underneath  the  fragrant  pine-trees, 

Sat  the  old  men  and  the  warriors 
Smoking  in  the  pleasant  shadow. 

In  uninterrupted  silence 
Looked  they  at  the  gamesome  labor 
Of  the  young  men  and  the  women  ; 
Listened  to  their  noisy  talking, 

To  their  laughter  and  their  singing, 

H eard  them  chattering  like  the  magpies, 
Heard  them  laughing  like  the  blue-jays, 
Heard  them  singing  like  the  robins. 

And  whene’er  some  lucky  maiden 
Found  a red  ear  in  the  husking, 

Found  a maize-ear  red  as  blood  is, 


“ Nushka  ! ” cried  they  all  together, 

“ Nushka  ! you  shall  have  a sweetheart, 
You  shall  have  a handsome  husband ! ” 

“ Ugh ! ” the  old  men  all  responded 
From  their  seats  beneath  the  pine-trees. 

And  whene’er  a youth  or  maiden 
Found  a crooked  ear  in  husking, 

Found  a maize-ear  in  the  husking 
Blighted,  mildewed,  or  misshapen, 

Then  they  laughed  and  sang  together, 
Crept  and  limped  about  the  cornfields, 
Mimicked  in  their  gait  and  gestures 
Some  old  man,  bent  almost  double, 
Singing  singly  or  together : 

“Wagemin,  the  thief  of  cornfields! 
Paimosaid,  who  steals  the  maize-ear ! ” 
Till  the  cornfields  rang  with  laughter, 
Till  from  Hiawatha’s  wigwam 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
Screamed  and  quivered  in  his  anger, 

And  from  all  the  neighboring  tree-tops 
Cawed  and  croaked  the  black  marauders. 
“ Ugh  ! ” the  old  men  all  responded, 

From  their  seats  beneath  the  pine-trees  ! 


XIV. 


PICTURE-WRITING. 


In  those  days  said  Hiawatha, 

Lo ! how  all  things  fade  and  perish  ! 
From  the  memory  of  the  old  men 
Pass  away  the  great  traditions, 

The  achievements  of  the  warriors, 

The  adventures  of  the  hunters, 

All  the  wisdom  of  the  Medas, 

All  the  craft  of  the  Wabenos, 

All  the  marvellous  dreams  and  visions 
Of  the  Jossakeeds,  the  Prophets  ! 

“Great  men  die  and  are  forgotten, 
Wise  men  speak  ; their  words  of  wisdom 
Perish  in  the  ears  that  hear  them, 

Do  not  reach  the  generations 
That,  as  yet  unborn,  are  waiting 
In  the  great,  mysterious  darkness 
Of  the  speechless  days  that  shall  be ! 

“ On  the  grave-posts  of  our  fathers 
Are  no  signs,  no  figures  painted ; 


Who  are  in  those  graves  we  know  not, 
Only  know  they  are  our  fathers. 

Of  what  kith  they  are  and  kindred, 
From  what  old,  ancestral  Totem, 

Be  it  Eagle,  Bear,  or  Beaver, 

They  descended,  this  we  know  not, 
Only  know  they  are  our  fathers. 

“Face  to  face  wre  speak  together, 

But  we  cannot  speak  when  absent, 
Cannot  send  our  voices  from  us 
To  the  friends  that  dwell  afar  off ; 
Cannot  send  a secret  message, 

But  the  bearer  learns  our  secret, 

May  pervert  it,  may  betray  it, 

May  reveal  it  unto  others.” 

Thus  said  Hiawatha,  walking 
In  the  solitary  forest. 

Pondering,  musing  in  the  forest, 

On  the  welfare  of  his  people. 


268 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


From  liis  poucli  lie  took  his  colors, 
Took  his  paints  of  different  colors, 

On  the  smooth  bark  of  a birch-tree 
Painted  many  shapes  and  figures, 
Wonderful  and  mystic  figures, 

And  each  figure  had  a meaning, 

Each  some  word  or  thought  suggested. 

Gitche  Manito  the  Mighty, 

He,  the  Master  of  Life,  was  painted 
As  an  egg,  with  points  projecting 
To  the  four  winds  of  the  heavens. 
Everywhere  is  the  Great  Spirit, 

Was  the  meaning  of  this  symbol. 

Mitche  Manito  the  Mighty, 

He  the  dreadful  Spirit  of  Evil, 

As  a serpent  was  depicted, 

As  Ivenabeek,  the  great  serpent. 

Very  crafty,  very  cunning, 

Is  the  creeping  Spirit  of  Evil, 

Was  the  meaning  of  this  symbol. 

Life  and  Death  he  drew  as  circles, 

Life  was  white,  but  Death  was  darkened ; 
Sun  and  moon  and  stars  lie  painted, 

Man  and  beast,  and  fish  and  reptile, 
Forests,  mountains,  lakes,  and  rivers. 

For  the  earth  he  drew  a straight  line, 
For  the  sky  a bow  above  it; 

White  the  space  between  for  daytime, 
Filled  with  little  stars  for  night-time  ; 

On  the  left  a point  for  sunrise, 

On  the  right  a point  for  sunset, 

On  the  top  a point  for  noontide, 

And  for  rain  and  cloudy  weather 
Waving  lines  descending  from  it. 

Footprints  pointing  towards  a wigwam 
Were  a sign  of  invitation, 

W ere  a sign  of  guests  assembling ; 

Bloody  hands  with  palms  uplifted 
Were  a symbol  of  destruction, 

Were  a hostile  sign  and  symbol. 

All  these  things  did  Hiawatha 
Show  unto  his  wondering  people, 

And  interpreted  their  meaning, 

And  he  said  : “ Behold,  your  grave-posts 
Have  no  mark,  no  sign,  nor  symbol. 

Go  and  paint  them  all  with  figures ; 

Each  one  with  its  household  symbol, 
With  its  own  ancestral  Totem  ; 

So  that  those  who  follow  after 

May  distinguish  them  and  know  them.” 


And  they  painted  on  the  grave-posts 
On  the  graves  yet  unforgotten. 

Each  his  own  ancestral  Totem, 

Each  the  symbol  of  his  household ; 
Figures  of  the  Bear  and  Reindeer, 

Of  the  Turtle,  Crane,  and  Beaver, 
Each  inverted  as  a token 
That  the  owner  was  departed, 

That  the  chief  who  bore  the  symbol 
Lay  beneath  in  dust  and  ashes. 

And  the  Jossakeeds,  the  Prophets, 
The  Wabenos,  the  Magicians, 

And  the  Medicine-men,  the  Medas, 
Painted  upon  bark  and  deer-skin 
Figures  for  the  songs  they  chanted, 
For  each  song  a separate  symbol, 
Figures  mystical  and  awful, 

Figures  strange  and  brightly  colored  ; 
And  each  figure  had  its  meaning, 

Each  some  magic  song  suggested. 

The  Great  Spirit,  the  Creator, 
Flashing  light  through  all  the  heaven; 
The  Great  Serpent,  the  Ivenabeek, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


2G9 


With  his  bloody  crest  erected, 

Creeping,  looking  into  heaven  ; 

In  the  sky  the  sun,  that  listens, 

And  the  moon  eclipsed  and  dying ; 

Owl  and  eagle,  crane  and  lien-hawk, 

And  the  cormorant,  bird  of  magic  ; 
Headless  men,  that  walk  the  heavens, 
Bodies  lying  pierced  with  arrows, 

Bloody  hands  of  death  uplifted, 

Flags  on  graves,  and  great  war-captains 
Grasping  both  the  earth  and  heaven  ! 

Such  as  these  the  shapes  they  painted 
On  the  birch-bark  and  the  deer  skin ; 
Songs  of  war  and  songs  of  hunting, 
Songs  of  medicine  and  of  magic, 

All  were  written  in  these  figures, 

For  each  figure  had  its  meaning, 

Each  its  separate  song  recorded. 

Nor  forgotten  was  the  Love-Song, 

The  most  subtle  of  all  medicines, 

The  most  potent  spell  of  magic, 
Dangerous  more  than  war  or  hunting  ! 
Thus  the  Love-Song  was  recorded, 
Symbol  and  interpretation. 

First  a human  figure  standing, 

Painted  in  the  brightest  scarlet ; 

’T  is  the  lover,  the  musician, 

And  the  meaning  is,  “ My  painting 
Makes  me  powerful  over  others.” 

Then  the  figure  seated,  singing, 
Playing  on  a drum  of  magic, 

And  the  interpretation,  “ Listen ! 

T is  my  voice  you  hear,  my  singing ! ” 
Then  the  same  red  figure  seated 
In  the  shelter  of  a wigwam, 

And  the  meaning  of  the  symbol, 


“ I will  come  and  sit  beside  you 
In  the  mystery  of  my  passion  ! ” 

Then  two  figures,  man  and  woman, 
Standing  hand  in  hand  together 
With  their  hands  so  clasped  together 
That  they  seemed  in  one  united, 

And  the  words  thus  represented 
Are,  “ I see  your  heart  within  you, 

And  your  cheeks  are  red  with  blushes ! ” 
Next  the  maiden  on  an  island, 

In  the  centre  of  an  island  ; 

And  the  song  this  shape  suggested 
Was,  “Though  you  were  at  a distance, 
Were  upon  some  far-off  island, 

Such  the  spell  I cast  upon  you, 

Such  the  magic  power  of  passion, 

I could  straightway  draw  you  to  me  ! ” 
Then  the  figure  of  the  maiden 
Sleeping,  and  the  lover  near  her, 
Whispering  to  her  in  her  slumbers, 
Saying,  “ Though  you  were  far  from  me 
In  the  land  of  Sleep  and  Silence, 

Still  the  voice  of  love  would  reach  you  ! ” 
And  the  last  of  all  the  figures 
Was  a heart  within  a circle, 

Drawn  within  a magic  circle ; 

And  the  image  had  this  meaning : 

“ Naked  lies  your  heart  before  me. 

To  your  naked  heart  I whisper ! ” 

Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha, 

In  his  wisdom,  taught  the  people 
All  the  mysteries  of  painting, 

All  the  art  of  Picture-Writing, 

On  the  smooth  bark  of  the  birch-tree, 

On  the  white  skin  of  the  reindeer, 

On  the  grave-posts  of  the  village. 


XV. 

HIAWATHA’S  LAMENTATION. 


In  those  days  the  Evil  Spirits, 

All  the  Manitos  of  mischief, 

Fearing  Hiawatha’s  wisdom, 

And  his  love  for  Chibiabos, 

Jealous  of  their  faithful  friendship, 
And  their  noble  words  and  actions, 
Made  at  length  a league  against  them, 


To  molest  them  and  destroy  them. 

Hiawatha,  wise  and  wary, 

Often  said  to  Chibiabos, 

“O  my  brother!  do  not  leave  me, 
Lest  the  Evil  Spirits  harm  you  ! ” 
Chibiabos,  young  and  heedless, 
Laughing  shook  his  coal-black  tresses, 


270 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Answered  ever  sweet  and  childlike, 

“ Do  not  fear  for  me,  O brother  ! 

Harm  and  evil  come  not  near  me ! ” 

Once  when  Peboan,  the  Winter, 

Roofed  with  ice  the  Big-Sea- Water, 

When  the  snow-flakes,  whirling  downward, 
Hissed  among  the  withered  oak-leaves, 
Changed  the  pine-trees  into  wigwams, 
Covered  all  the  earth  with  silence,  — 
Armed  with  arrows,  shod  with  snow-shoes. 
Heeding  not  his  brother’s  warning, 

Fearing  not  the  Evil  Spirits, 

Forth  to  hunt  the  deer  with  antlers 
All  alone  went  Chibiabos. 

Right  across  the  Big-Sea- Water 
Sprang  with  speed  the  deer  before  him. 
With  the  wind  and  snow  he  followed, 

O’er  the  treacherous  ice  he  followed, 

Wild  with  all  the  fierce  commotion 
And  the  rapture  of  the  hunting. 

But  beneath,  the  Evil  Spirits 
Lay  in  ambush,  waiting  for  him, 

Broke  the  treacherous  ice  beneath  him, 
Dragged  him  downward  to  the  bottom, 
Buried  in  the  sand  his  body. 

Unktahee,  the  god  of  water, 

He  the  god  of  the  Dacotahs, 

Drowned  him  in  the  deep  abysses 
Of  the  lake  of  Gitche  Gurnee. 

From  the  headlands  Hiawatha 
Sent  forth  such  a wail  of  anguish, 

Such  a fearful  lamentation. 

That  the  bison  paused  to  listen, 

And  the  wolves  howled  from  the  prairies, 
And  the  thunder  in  the  distance 
Starting  answered  “ Baim-wawa  ! ” 

Then  his  face  with  black  he  painted, 
With  his  robe  his  head  he  covered, 

In  his  wigwam  sat  lamenting, 

Seven  long  weeks  he  sat  lamenting, 
Uttering  still  this  moan  of  sorrow:  — 

“ He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician ! 

He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers ! 

He  has  gone  from  us  forever, 

He  has  moved  a little  nearer 
To  the  Master  of  all  music, 

To  the  Master  of  all  singing! 

O my  brother,  Chibiabos  ! ” 

And  the  melancholy  fir-trees 
Waved  their  dark  green  fans  above  him, 


Waved  their  purple  cones  above  him, 
Sighing  with  him  to  console  him, 

Mingling  with  his  lamentation 
Their  complaining,  their  lamenting. 

Came  the  Spring,  and  all  the  forest 
Looked  in  vain  for  Chibiabos  ; 

Sighed  the  rivulet,  Sebowisha, 

Sighed  the  rushes  in  the  meadow. 

From  the  tree-tops  sang  the  bluebird, 
Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Ovvaissa, 

“ Chibiabos  ! Chibiabos  ! 

He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician ! ” 

From  the  wigwam  sang  the  robin, 

Sang  the  robin,  the  Opecliee, 

“ Chibiabos  ! Chibiabos  ! 

He  is  dead,  the  sweetest  singer  ! ” 

And  at  night  through  all  the  forest 
Went  the  whippoorwill  complaining, 
Wailing  went  the  Wawonaissa, 

“ Chibiabos  ! Chibiabos  ! 

He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician ! 

He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers  ! ” 

Then  the  medicine-men,  the  Medas, 

The  magicians,  the  Wabenos, 

And  the  Jossakeeds,  the  prophets, 

Came  to  visit  Hiawatha ; 

Build  a Sacred  Lodge  beside  him, 

To  appease  him,  to  console  him, 

Walked  in  silent,  grave  procession, 

Bearing  each  a pouch  of  healing, 

Skin  of  beaver,  lynx,  or  otter, 

Filled  with  magic  roots  and  simples, 

Filled  with  very  potent  medicines. 

When  he  heard  their  steps  approach- 

i»g> 

Hiawatha  ceased  lamenting, 

Called  no  more  on  Chibiabos  ; 

Naught  he  questioned,  naught  he  answered, 
But  his  mournful  head  uncovered, 

From  his  face  the  mourning  colors 
Washed  he  slowly  and  in  silence, 

Slowly  and  in  silence  followed 
Onward  to  the  Sacred  Wigwam. 

There  a magic  drink  they  gave  him, 
Made  of  Nahma-wusk,  the  spearmint, 

And  Wabeno-wusk,  the  yarrow, 

Roots  of  power,  and  herbs  of  healing ; 
Beat  their  drums,  and  shook  their  rattles  ; 
Chanted  singly  and  in  chorus, 

Mystic  songs  like  these,  they  chanted. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


271 


“ I myself,  myself  ! behold  me  ! 

T is  the  great  Gray  Eagle  talking ; 

Come,  ye  white  crows,  come  and  hear  him  ! 
The  loud-speaking  thunder  helps  me ; 

All  the  unseen  spirits  help  me; 

I can  hear  their  voices  calling, 

All  around  the  sky  1 hear  them ! 

1 can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother, 

1 can  heal  you,  Hiawatha  ! ” 

“ Hi-au-ha  ! ” replied  the  chorus, 
u Way-ha-way  ! ” the  mystic  chorus. 

“ Friends  of  mine  are  all  the  serpents  ! 
Hear  me  shake  my  skin  of  hen-hawk  ! 
Mahng,  the  white  loon,  I can  kill  him ; 

I can  shoot  your  heart  and  kill  it ! 

1 can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother, 

1 can  heal  you,  Hiawatha ! ” 


“ Hi-au-ha  ! ” replied  the  chorus. 

“ Way-ha- way  ! ” the  mystic  chorus. 

“ I myself,  myself  ! the  prophet ! 

When  I speak  the  wigwam  trembles, 
Shakes  the  Sacred  Lodge  with  terror, 
Hands  unseen  begin  to  shake  it ! 

When  1 walk,  the  sky  1 tread  on 
Bends  and  makes  a noise  beneath  me  ! 

1 can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother  ! 

Rise  and  speak,  O Hiawatha  ! ” 

“ Hi-au-ha  ! ” replied  the  chorus, 

“ Way-ha-way  ! ” the  mystic  chorus. 

Then  they  shook  their  medicine-pouches 
O'er  the  head  of  Hiawatha, 

Danced  their  medicine-dance  around  him  ; 
And  upstarting  wild  and  haggard, 

Like  a man  from  dreams  awakened, 


He  was  healed  of  all  his  madness. 

As  the  clouds  are  swept  from  heaven, 
Straightway  from  his  brain  departed 
All  his  moody  melancholy  ; 

As  the  ice  is  swept  from  rivers, 
Straightway  from  his  heart  departed 
All  his  sorrow  and  affliction. 

Then  they  summoned  Chibiabos 
From  his  grave  beneath  the  waters, 


From  the  sands  of  Gitclie  Gurnee 
Summoned  Hiawatha’s  brother. 

And  so  mighty  was  the  magic 
Of  that  cry  and  invocation, 

That  he  heard  it  as  he  lay  there 
Underneath  the  Big-Sea- Water  ; 
From  the  sand  he  rose  and  listened, 
Heard  the  music  and  the  singing, 
Came,  obedient  to  the  summons, 


272 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


To  the  doorway  of  the  wigwam, 

But  to  enter  they  forbade  him. 

Through  a chink  a coal  they  gave  him, 
Through  the  door  a burning  fire-brand ; 
Ruler  in  the  Land  of  Spirits, 

Ruler  o’er  the  dead,  they  made  him, 
Telling  him  a fire  to  kindle 
For  all  those  that  died  thereafter, 
Camp-fires  for  their  night  encampments 
On  their  solitary  journey 
To  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 

To  the  land  of  the  Hereafter. 

From  the  village  of  his  childhood, 

From  the  homes  of  those  who  knew  him, 
Passing  silent  through  the  forest, 

Like  a smoke-wreath  wafted  sideways, 
Slowly  vanished  Chibiabos  ! 

Where  he  passed,  the  branches  moved  not, 
Where  lie  trod,  the  grasses  bent  not, 

And  the  fallen  leaves  of  last  year 
Made  no  sound  beneath  his  footsteps. 

Four  whole  days  he  journeyed  onward 
Down  the  pathway  of  the  dead  men  ; 

On  the  dead-man's  strawberry  feasted, 
Crossed  the  melancholy  river, 

On  the  swinging  log  he  crossed  it, 


Came  unto  the  Lake  of  Silver, 

In  the  Stone  Canoe  was  carried 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 

To  the  land  of  ghosts  and  shadows. 

On  that  journey,  moving  slowly. 

Many  weary  spirits  saw  he, 

Panting  under  heavy  burdens, 

Laden  with  war-clubs,  bows  and  arrows, 
Robes  of  fur,  and  pots  and  kettles, 

And  with  food  that  friends  had  given 
For  that  solitary  journey. 

“ Ay  ! why  do  the  living,”  said  they, 

“ Lay  such  heavy  burdens  on  us ! 

Better  were  it  to  go  naked, 

Better  were  it  to  go  fasting, 

Than  to  bear  such  heavy  burdens 
On  our  long  and  weary  journey ! ” 

Forth  then  issued  Hiawatha, 

Wandered  eastward,  wandered  westward, 
Teaching  men  the  use  of  simples 
And  the  antidotes  for  poisons, 

And  the  cure  of  all  diseases. 

Thus  was  first  made  known  to  mortals 
All  the  mystery  of  Medamin, 

All  the  sacred  art  of  healing. 


XVI. 

PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 


You  shall  hear  how  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
He,  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 

Whom  the  people  called  the  Storm  Fool, 
Vexed  the  village  with  disturbance  ; 

You  shall  hear  of  all  his  mischief, 

And  his  flight  from  Hiawatha, 

And  his  wondrous  transmigrations, 

And  the  end  of  his  adventures. 

On  the  shores  of  Gitclie  Gurnee, 

On  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo, 

By  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water- 
Stood  the  lodge  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

It  was  he  who  in  his  frenzy 
Whirled  these  drifting  sands  together, 

On  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo, 

When,  among  the  guests  assembled, 

He  so  merrily  and  madly 
Danced  at  Hiawatha’s  wedding, 

Danced  the  Beggar's  Dance  to  please  them. 


Now,  in  search  of  new  adventures, 
From  his  lodge  went  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Came  with  speed  into  the  village, 
Found  the  young  men  all  assembled 
In  the  lodge  of  old  Iagoo, 

Listening  to  his  monstrous  stories, 

To  his  wonderful  adventures. 

He  was  telling  them  the  story 
Of  Ojeeg,  the  Summer-Maker, 

How  he  made  a hole  in  heaven. 

How  he  climbed  up  into  heaven, 

And  let  out  the  summer- weather. 

The  perpetual,  pleasant  Summer ; 

How  the  Otter  first  essayed  it ; 

How  the  Beaver,  Lynx,  and  Badger 
Tried  in  turn  the  great  achievement, 
From  the  summit  of  the  mountain 
Smote  their  fists  against  the  heavens, 
Smote  against  the  sky  their  foreheads, 


HE  NR  Y ]VA  I)S  WO  R TH  L ONGFEL  L 0 W. 


273 


Cracked  the  sky,  but  could  not  break  it ; 
How  the  Wolverine,  uprising, 

Made  him  ready  for  the  encounter, 

Bent  his  knees  down,  like  a squirrel, 
Drew  his  arms  back,  like  a cricket. 

“ Once  he  leaped,”  said  old  Iagoo, 

“ Once  he  leaped,  and  lo ! above  him 
Bent  the  sky,  as  ice  in  rivers 
When  the  waters  rise  beneath  it ; 

Twice  be  leaped,  and  lo ! above  him 
Cracked  the  sky,  as  ice  in  rivers 
When  the  freshet  is  at  highest ! 

Thrice  he  leaped,  and  lo  ! above  him 
Broke  the  shattered  sky  asunder, 

And  he  disappeared  within  it, 

And  Ojeeg,  the  Fisher  Weasel, 

With  a bound  went  in  behind  him  ! ” 

“ Hark  you  ! ” shouted  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway  ; 

“ I am  tired  of  all  this  talking, 

Tired  of  old  Iagoo’s  stories, 

Tired  of  Hiawatha's  wisdom. 

Here  is  something  to  amuse  you, 

Better  than  this  endless  talking:.” 

Then  from  out  his  pouch  of  wolf-skin 
Forth  he  drew,  with  solemn  manner, 

All  the  game  of  Bowl  and  Counters, 
Pugasaing,  with  thirteen  pieces. 

White  on  one  side  were  they  painted, 
And  vermilion  on  the  other ; 

Two  Kenabeeks  or  great  serpents, 

Two  Ininewug  or  wedge-men, 

One  great  war-club,  Pugamaugun, 

And  one  slender  fish,  the  Keego, 

Four  round  pieces,  Ozawabeeks, 

And  three  Sheshebwug  or  ducklings. 

All  Avere  made  of  bone  and  painted, 

All  except  the  OzaAvabeeks  ; 

These  Avere  brass,  on  one  side  burnished, 
And  Avere  black  upon  the  other. 

In  a wooden  boAvl  he  placed  them, 
Shook  and  jostled  them  together, 

Threw  them  on  the  ground  before  him. 
Thus  exclaiming  and  explaining  : 

“ Red  side  up  are  all  the  pieces, 

And  one  great  Kenabeek  standing 
On  the  bright  side  of  a brass  piece. 

On  a burnished  OzaAvabeek  ; 

Thirteen  tens  and  eight  are  counted.” 
Then  again  he  shook  the  pieces, 

35 


Shook  and  jostled  them  together, 

ThreAV  them  on  the  ground  before  him, 
Still  exclaiming  and  explaining: 

“ White  are  both  the  great  Kenabeeks, 
White  the  Ininewug,  the  Avedge-men, 

Red  are  all  the  other  pieces ; 

Five  tens  and  an  eight  are  counted.” 

Thus  he  taught  the  game  of  hazard, 
Thus  displayed  it  and  explained  it, 
Running  through  its  various  chances, 
Various  changes,  various  meanings : 
TAventy  curious  eyes  stared  at  him. 

Full  of  eagerness  stared  at  him. 

“ Many  games,”  said  old  Iagoo, 

“ Many  games  of  skill  and  hazard 
Have  I seen  in  different  nations, 

Have  I played  in  different  countries. 

He  avIio  plays  Avith  old  Iagoo 
Must  have  very  nimble  fingers ; 

Though  you  think  yourself  so  skilful 
I can  beat  you,  Pau-Puk-KeeAvis, 

I can  even  give  you  lessons 

In  your  game  of  Bowl  and  Counters  ! ” 

So  they  sat  and  played  together, 

All  the  old  men  and  the  young  men, 
Played  for  dresses,  weapons,  wampum, 
Played  till  midnight,  played  till  morning, 
Played  until  the  Yenadizze, 

Till  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Of  their  treasures  had  despoiled  them, 

Of  the  best  of  all  their  dresses, 

Shirts  of  deer-skin,  robes  of  ermine, 

Belts  of  wampum,  crests  of  feathers, 
Warlike  weapons,  pipes  and  pouches. 
Twenty  eyes  glared  wildly  at  him, 

Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  him. 

Said  the  lucky  Pau-Puk-Keewis : 

“ In  my  wigwam  I am  lonely, 

In  my  wanderings  and  adventures 
I have  need  of  a companion, 

Fain  would  have  a Meshinauwa, 

An  attendant  and  pipe-bearer. 

I will  venture  all  these  winnings, 

All  these  garments  heaped  about  me, 

All  this  wampum,  all  these  feathers, 

On  a single  throw  will  venture 
All  against  the  young  man  yonder ! ” 

’T  Avas  a youth  of  sixteen  summers, 

’T  was  a nephew  of  Iagoo ; 

Face-in-a-Mist,  the  people  called  him. 


274 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


As  the  fire  burns  in  a pipe-head 
Dusky  red  beneath  the  ashes, 

So  beneath  his  shaggy  eyebrows 
Glowed  the  eyes  of  old  Iagoo. 

“ Ugh  ! ” he  answered  very  fiercely  ; 

“ Ugh  ! ” they  answered  all  and  each  one. 

Seized  the  wooden  bowl  the  old  man, 
Closely  in  his  bony  fingers 
Clutched  the  fatal  bowl,  Onagon, 

Shook  it  fiercely  and  with  fury, 


Made  the  pieces  ring  together 
As  he  threw  them  down  before  him. 

Red  were  both  the  great  Kenabeeks, 
Red  the  Ininewug,  the  wedge-men, 

Red  the  Sheshebwug,  the  ducklings, 
Black  the  four  brass  Ozawabeeks, 
White  alone  the  fish,  the  Keego  ; 

Only  five  the  pieces  counted  ! 

Then  the  smiling  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Shook  the  bowl  and  threw  the  pieces  ; 


Lightly  in  the  air  he  tossed  them, 

And  they  fell  about  him  scattered  ; 

Dark  and  bright  the  Ozawabeeks, 

Red  and  white  the  other  pieces, 

And  upright  among  the  others 
One  Ininewug  was  standing, 

Even  as  crafty  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Stood  alone  among  the  players, 

Saying,  “ Five  tens ! mine  the  game  is  ! ” 
Twenty  eyes  glared  at  him  fiercely, 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  him, 

As  he  turned  and  left  the  wigwam, 
Followed  by  his  Meshinauwa, 


By  the  nephew  of  Iagoo, 

By  the  tall  and  graceful  stripling, 

Bearing  in  his  arms  the  winnings, 

Shirts  of  deer-skin,  robes  of  ermine, 

Belts  of  wampum,  pipes  and  weapons. 

“ Carry  them,”  said  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pointing  with  his  fan  of  feathers, 

“To  my  wigwam  far  to  eastward, 

On  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo  ! ” 

Hot  and  red  with  smoke  and  gambling 
Wore  the  eyes  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As  he  came  forth  to  the  freshness 
Of  the  pleasant  Summer  morning. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


27 


All  the  birds  were  singing  gayly, 

All  the  streamlets  flowing  swiftly, 

And  the  heart  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sang  with  pleasure  as  the  birds  sing, 
Beat  with  triumph  like  the  streamlets, 

As  he  wandered  through  the  village, 

In  the  early  gray  of  morning, 

With  his  fan  of  turkey-feathers, 

With  his  plumes  and  tufts  of  swan’s 
down, 

Till  he  reached  the  farthest  wigwam, 
Reached  the  lodge  of  Hiawatha. 

Silent  was  it  and  deserted  ; 

No  one  met  him  at  the  doorway, 

No  one  came  to  bid  him  welcome; 

But  the  birds  were  singing  round  it, 

In  and  out  and  round  the  doorway, 
Hopping,  singing,  fluttering,  feeding, 

And  aloft  upon  the  ridge-pole 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 

Sat  with  fiery  eyes,  and,  screaming, 
Flapped  his  wings  at  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

“ All  are  gone  ! the  lodge  is  empty  ! ” 
Thus  it  was  spake  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

In  his  heart  resolving  mischief  ; — 

“ Gone  is  wary  Hiawatha, 

Gone  the  silly  Laughing  Water, 

Gone  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 

And  the  lodge  is  left  unguarded ! ” 

By  the  neck  he  seized  the  raven, 
Whirled  it  round  him  like  a rattle, 

Like  a medicine-pouch  he  shook  it, 
Strangled  Kahgahgee,  the  raven, 

From  the  ridge-pole  of  the  wigwam 
Left  its  lifeless  body  hanging, 

As  an  insult  to  its  master, 

As  a taunt  to  Hiawatha. 

With  a stealthy  step  he  entered, 

Round  the  lodge  in  wild  disorder 


Threw  the  household  things  about  him, 

Piled  together  in  confusion 

Bowls  of  wood  and  earthen  kettles, 

Robes  of  buffalo  and  beaver, 

Skins  of  otter,  lynx,  and  ermine, 

As  an  insult  to  Nokomis, 

As  a taunt  to  Minnehaha. 

Then  departed  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Whistling,  singing  through  the  forest, 
Whistling  gayly  to  the  squirrels, 

Who  from  hollow  boughs  above  him 
Dropped  their  acorn-shells  upon  him, 
Singing  gayly  to  the  wood  birds, 

Who  from  out  the  leafy  darkness 
Answered  with  a song  as  merry. 

Then  he  climbed  the  rocky  headlands, 
Looking  o’er  the  Gitche  Gumee, 

Perched  himself  upon  their  summit, 
Waiting  full  of  mirth  and  mischief 
The  return  of  Hiawatha. 

Stretched  upon  his  back  he  lay  there ; 
Far  below  him  plashed  the  waters, 
Plashed  and  washed  the  dreamy  waters ; 
Far  above  him  swam  the  heavens, 

Swam  the  dizzy,  dreamy  heavens  ; 

Round  him  hovered,  fluttered,  rustled, 
Hiawatha’s  mountain  chickens, 

Flock-wise  swept  and  wheeled  about  him, 
Almost  brushed  him  with  their  pinions. 

And  he  killed  them  as  he  lay  there, 
Slaughtered  them  by  tens  and  twenties, 
Threw  their  bodies  down  the  headland, 
Threw  them  on  the  beach  below  him, 
Till  at  length  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gull, 
Perched  upon  a crag  above  them, 
Shouted:  “It  is  Pau-Puk-Keewis! 

He  is  slaying  us  by  hundreds  ! 

Send  a message  to  our  brother, 

Tidings  send  to  Hiawatha!” 


276 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


XVII. 

THE  HUNTING  OF  PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 


Full  of  wrath  was  Hiawatha 
When  he  came  into  the  village, 

Found  the  people  in  confusion, 

Heard  of  all  the  misdemeanors, 

All  the  malice  and  the  mischief, 

Of  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

Hard  his  breath  came  through  his  nostrils, 
Through  his  teeth  he  buzzed  and  muttered 
Words  of  anger  and  resentment, 

Hot  and  humming,  like  a hornet. 

“ I will  slay  this  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Slay  this  mischief-maker  ! ” said  he. 

“Not  so  long  and  wide  the  world  is, 

Not  so  rude  and  rough  the  way  is, 

That  my  wrath  shall  not  attain  him, 

That  my  vengeance  shall  not  reach  him  ! ” 
Then  in  swift  pursuit  departed 
Hiawatha  and  the  hunters 
On  the  trail  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Through  the  forest,  where  he  passed  it, 

To  the  headlands  where  he  rested  ; 

But  they  found  not  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Only  in  the  trampled  grasses, 

In  the  whortleberry-bushes, 

Found  the  couch  where  he  had  rested, 
Found  the  impress  of  his  body. 

From  the  lowlands  far  beneath  them, 
From  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
Pau-Puk-Keewis,  turning  backward, 

Made  a gesture  of  defiance, 

Made  a gesture  of  derision  ; 

And  aloud  cried  Hiawatha, 

From  the  summit  of  the  mountains  : 

“ Not  so  long  and  wide  the  world  is, 

Not  so  rude  and  rough  the  way  is, 

But  my  wrath  shall  overtake  you, 

And  my  vengeance  shall  attain  you  ! ” 
Over  rock  and  over  river, 

Thorough  bush,  and  brake,  and  forest, 

Ran  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 

Like  an  antelope  he  bounded. 

Till  he  came  unto  a streamlet 
In  the  middle  of  the  forest, 

To  a streamlet  still  and  tranquil, 


That  had  overflowed  its  margin, 

To  a dam  made  by  the  beavers, 

To  a pond  of  quiet  water, 

Where  knee-deep  the  trees  were  standing, 
Where  the  water-lilies  floated, 

Wh  ere  the  rushes  waved  and  whispered. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

On  the  dam  of  trunks  and  branches, 
Through  whose  chinks  the  water  spouted, 
O’er  Avliose  summit  flowed  the  streamlet. 
From  the  bottom  rose  the  beaver, 

Looked  with  two  great  eyes  of  wonder, 
Eyes  that  seemed  to  ask  a question, 

At  the  stranger,  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O’er  his  ankles  flowed  the  streamlet, 
Flowed  the  bright  and  silvery  water, 

And  he  spake  unto  the  beaver, 

With  a smile  he  spake  in  this  wise  : 

“ O my  friend  Ahmeek,  the  beaver, 
Cool  and  pleasant  is  the  water ; 

Let  me  dive  into  the  water, 

Let  me  rest  there  in  your  lodges ; 

Change  me,  too,  into  a beaver  ! ” 
Cautiously  replied  the  beaver, 

With  reserve  he  thus  made  answer: 

“ Let  me  first  consult  the  others, 

Let  me  ask  the  other  beavers.” 

Down  he  sank  into  the  water, 

Heavily  sank  he,  as  a stone  sinks, 

Down  among  the  leaves  and  branches, 
Brown  and  matted  at  the  bottom. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O'er  his  alikles  flowed  the  streamlet, 
Spouted  through  the  chinks  below  him, 
Dashed  upon  the  stones  beneath  him, 
Spread  serene  and  calm  before  him, 

And  the  sunshine  and  the  shadows 
Fell  in  flecks  and  gleams  upon  him, 

Fell  in  little  shining  patches, 

Through  the  waving,  rustling  branches. 

From  the  bottom  rose  the  beavers, 
Silently  above  the  surface 
Rose  one  head  and  then  another, 


HENE  Y WADS  WOR  TH  L ONCE  ELL  0 W. 


277 


Till  the  pond  seemed  full  of  beavers, 

Full  of  black  and  shining  faces. 

To  the  beavers  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Spake  entreating,  said  in  this  wise  : 

“ Very  pleasant  is  your  dwelling, 

O my  friends ! and  safe  from  danger ; 

Can  you  not  with  all  your  cunning, 

All  your  wisdom  and  contrivance, 

Change  me,  too,  into  a beaver  ? ” 

“ Yes ! ” replied  Alimeek,  the  beaver, 

He  the  King  of  all  the  beavers, 

“ Let  yourself  slide  down  among  us, 

Down  into  the  tranquil  water.” 

Down  into  the  pond  among  them 
Silently  sank  Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 

Black  became  his  shirt  of  deer-skin, 

Black  his  moccasins  and  leggings, 

In  a broad  black  tail  behind  him 
Spread  his  fox-tails  and  his  fringes; 

He  was  changed  into  a beaver. 

“ Make  me  large,”  said  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
“ Make  me  large  and  make  me  larger, 
Larger  than  the  other  beavers.” 

“ Yes,”  the  beaver  chief  responded, 

“ When  our  lodge  below  you  enter, 

In  our  wigwam  we  will  make  you 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  others.” 

Thus  into  the  clear,  brown  water 
Silently  sank  Pau-Puk-Keewis  : 


Found  the  bottom  covered  over 
With  the  trunks  of  trees  and  branches, 
Hoards  of  food  against  the  winter, 

Piles  and  heaps  against  the  famine; 

Found  the  lodge  with  arching  doorway, 
Leading  into  spacious  chambers. 

Here  they  made  him  large  and  larger, 
Made  him  largest  of  the  beavers, 

Ten  times  larger  than  the  others. 

“ You  shall  be  our  ruler,”  said  they ; 

“ Chief  and  King  of  all  the  beavers.” 

But  not  long  had  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sat  in  state  among  the  beavers, 

When  there  came  a voice  of  warning 
From  the  watchman  at  his  station 
In  the  water-flags  and  lilies, 

Saying,  “ Here  is  Hiawatha  ! 

Hiawatha  with  his  hunters!” 

Then  they  heard  a cry  above  them, 
Heard  a shouting  and  a tramping, 

Heard  a crashing  and  a rushing, 

And  the  water  round  and  o’er  them 
Sank  and  sucked  away  in  eddies, 

And  they  knew  their  dam  was  broken. 

On  the  lodge’s  roof  the  hunters 
Leaped,  and  broke  it  all  asunder ; 

Streamed  the  sunshine  through  the  crevice, 
Sprang  the  beavers  through  the  doorway, 
Hid  themselves  in  deeper  water, 


278 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


In  the  channel  of  the  streamlet ; 

But  the  mighty  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Could  not  pass  beneath  the  doorway  ; 

He  was  puffed  with  pride  and  feeding, 

He  was  swollen  like  a bladder. 

Through  the  roof  looked  Hiawatha, 
Cried  aloud,  “ O Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! 

Vain  are  all  your  craft  and  cunning, 

Vain  your  manifold  disguises ! 

Well  I know  you,  Pau-Puk-Keewis!” 
With  their  clubs  they  beat  and  bruised 
him, 

Beat  to  death  poor  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pounded  him  as  maize  is  pounded, 

Till  his  skull  was  crushed  to  pieces. 

Six  tall  hunters,  lithe  and  limber, 

Bore  him  home  on  poles  and  branches, 
Bore  the  body  of  the  beaver ; 

But  the  ghost,  the  Jeebi  in  him, 

Thought  and  felt  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Still  lived  on  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

And  it  fluttered,  strove,  and  struggled, 
Waving  hither,  waving  thither, 


As  the  curtains  of  a wigwam 
Struggle  with  their  thongs  of  cleer-skin, 
When  the  wintry  wind  is  blowing  ; 

Till  it  drew  itself  together, 

Till  it  rose  up  from  the  body, 

Till  it  took  the  form  and  features 
Of  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Vanishing  into  the  forest. 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha 
Saw  the  figure  ere  it  vanished, 

Saw  the  form  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Glide  into  the  soft  blue  shadow 
Of  the  pine-trees  of  the  forest ; 

Toward  the  squares  of  white  beyond  it, 
Toward  an  opening  in  the  forest, 

Like  a wind  it  rushed  and  panted, 
Bending  all  the  boughs  before  it, 

And  behind  it,  as  the  rain  comes, 

Came  the  steps  of  Hiawatha. 

To  a lake  with  many  islands 
Came  the  breathless  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Where  among  the  water-lilies 
Pishnekuh,  the  brant,  were  sailing ; 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


279 


Through  the  tufts  of  rushes  floating, 
Steering  through  the  reedy  islands. 

Now  their  broad  black  beaks  they  lifted, 
Now  they  plunged  beneath  the  water, 

Now  they  darkened  in  the  shadow, 

Now  they  brightened  in  the  sunshine. 

“ Pishnekuh  ! ” cried  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

“ Pishnekuh  ! my  brothers  ! ” said  he, 

“ Change  me  to  a brant  with  plumage, 

With  a shining  neck  and  feathers, 

Make  me  large,  and  make  me  larger, 

Ten  times  larger  than  the  others.” 

Straightway  to  a brant  they  changed  him, 
With  two  huge  and  dusky  pinions, 

With  a bosom  smooth  and  rounded, 

With  a bill  like  two  great  paddles, 

Made  him  larger  than  the  others. 

Ten  times  larger  than  the  largest, 

Just  as,  shouting  from  the  forest, 

On  the  shore  stood  Hiawatha. 

Up  they  rose  with  cry  and  clamor, 

With  a whir  and  beat  of  pinions, 

Rose  up  from  the  reedy  islands, 

From  the  water-flags  and  lilies. 

And  they  said  to  Pau-Puk-Keewis : 

“ In  your  flying,  look  not  downward, 

Take  good  heed,  and  look  not  downward, 
Lest  some  strange  mischance  should  happen, 
Lest  some  great  mishap  befall  you  ! ” 

Fast  and  far  they  fled  to  northward, 

Fast  and  far  through  mist  and  sunshine, 
Fed  among  the  moors  and  fen-lands, 

Slept  among  the  reeds  and  rushes. 

On  the  morrow  as  they  journeyed, 
Buoyed  and  lifted  by  the  South-wind, 
Wafted  onward  by  the  South-wind, 
Blowing  fresh  and  strong  behind  them, 
Rose  a sound  of  human  voices, 

Rose  a clamor  from  beneath  them, 

From  the  lodges  of  a village, 

From  the  people  miles  beneath  them. 

For  the  people  of  the  village 
Saw  the  flock  of  brant  with  wonder, 

Saw  the  wings  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Flapping  far  up  in  the  ether, 

Broader  than  two  doorway  curtains. 

Pau-Puk-Keewis  heard  the  shouting, 
Knew  the  voice  of  Hiawatha, 

Knew  the  outcry  of  Iagoo, 

And  forgetful  of  the  warning, 


Drew  his  neck  in,  and  looked  downward, 
And  the  wind  that  blew  behind  him 
Caught  his  mighty  fan  of  feathers, 

Sent  him  wheeling,  whirling  downward ! 

All  in  vain  did  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Struggle  to  regain  his  balance ! 

Whirling  round  and  round  and  downward, 
He  beheld  in  turn  the  village 
And  in  turn  the  flock  above  him, 

Saw  the  village  coming  nearer, 

And  the  flock  receding  farther, 

Heard  the  voices  growing  louder, 

Heard  the  shouting  and  the  laughter ; 

Saw  no  more  the  flock  above  him, 

Only  saw  the  earth  beneath  him  ; 

Dead  out  of  the  empty  heaven, 

Dead  among  the  shouting  people, 

With  a heavy  sound  and  sullen, 

Fell  the  brant  with  broken  pinions. 

But  his  soul,  his  ghost,  his  shadow, 

Still  survived  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Took  again  the  form  and  features 
Of  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 

And  again  went  rushing  onward, 

Followed  fast  by  Hiawatha, 

Crying:  “Not  so  wide  the  world  is, 

Not  so  long  and  rough  the  way  is, 

But  my  wrath  shall  overtake  you, 

But  my  vengeance  shall  attain  you ! ” 

And  so  near  he  came,  so  near  him, 
That  his  hand  was  stretched  to  seize  him, 
His  right  hand  to  seize  and  hold  him, 
When  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Whirled  and  spiui  about  in  circles, 

Fanned  the  air  into  a whirlwind, 

Danced  the  dust  and  leaves  about  him, 
And  amid  the  whirling  eddies 
Sprang  into  a hollow  oak-tree, 

Changed  himself  into  a serpent, 

Gliding  out  through  root  and  rubbish. 

With  his  right  hand  Hiawatha 
Smote  amain  the  hollow  oak-tree, 

Rent  it  into  shreds  and  splinters. 

Left  it  lying  there  in  fragments. 

But  in  vain ; for  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Once  again  in  human  figure, 

Full  in  sight  ran  on  before  him, 

Sped  away  in  gust  and  whirlwind, 

On  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gurnee, 
Westward  by  the  Big-Sea-Water, 


280 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Came  unto  the  rocky  headlands, 

To  the  Pictured  Rocks  of  sandstone, 
Looking  over  lake  and  landscape. 

And  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain, 

He  the  Manito  of  Mountains, 

Opened  wide  his  rocky  doorways, 

Opened  wide  his  deep  abysses, 

Giving  Pau-Puk-Keewis  shelter 
In  his  caverns  dark  and  dreary, 

Bidding  Pau-Puk-Keewis  welcome 
To  liis  gloomy  lodge  of  sandstone. 

There  without  stood  Hiawatha, 

Found  the  doorways  closed  against  him, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 

Smote  great  caverns  in  the  sandstone, 
Cried  aloud  in  tones  of  thunder, 

“ Open  ! I am  Hiawatha  ! ” 

But  the  old  Man  of  the  Mountain 
Opened  not,  and  made  no  answer 
From  the  silent  crags  of  sandstone, 

From  the  gloomy  rock  abysses. 

Then  he  raised  his  hands  to  heaven, 
Called  imploring  on  the  tempest, 

Called  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 

And  the  thunder,  Annemeekee  ; 

And  they  came  with  night  and  darkness, 
Sweeping  down  the  Big-Sea- Water 
From  the  distant  Thunder  Mountains; 
And  the  trembling  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Heard  the  footsteps  of  the  thunder, 

Saw  the  red  eyes  of  the  lightning, 

W as  afraid,  and  crouched  and  trembled. 

Then  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 
Smote  the  doorways  of  the  caverns, 

With  his  war-club  smote  the  doorways, 
Smote  the  jutting  crags  of  sandstone, 

And  the  thunder,  Annemeekee, 


Shouted  down  into  the  caverns, 

Saying,  “ Where  is  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! ” 

And  the  crags  fell,  and  beneath  them 
Dead  among  the  rocky  ruins 
Lay  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Lay  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 

Slain  in  his  own  human  figure. 

Ended  were  his  wild  adventures, 

Ended  were  his  tricks  and  gambols, 

Ended  all  his  craft  and  cunning, 

Ended  all  his  mischief-making, 

All  his  gambling  and  his  dancing, 

All  his  wooing  of  the  maidens. 

Then  the  noble  Hiawatha 
Took  his  soul,  his  ghost,  his  shadow, 

Spake  and  said  : “ O Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Never  more  in  human  figure 
Shall  you  search  for  new  adventures ; 
Never  more  with  jest  and  laughter 
Dance  the  dust  and  leaves  in  whirlwinds  ; 
But  above  there  in  the  heavens 
You  shall  soar  and  sail  in  circles  ; 

I will  change  you  to  an  eagle, 

To  Iveneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 

Chief  of  all  the  fowls  with  feathers, 

Chief  of  Hiawatha’s  chickens.” 

And  the  name  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Lingers  still  among  the  people, 

Lingers  still  among  the  singers, 

And  among  the  story-tellers ; 

And  in  Winter,  when  the  snow-flakes 
Whirl  in  eddies  round  the  lodges, 

When  the  wind  in  gusty  tumult 
O’er  the  smoke-flue  pipes  and  whistles, 

“ There,”  they  cry,  “ comes  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ; 
He  is  dancing  through  the  village, 

He  is  gathering  in  his  harvest ! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


281 


XVTTI. 

THE  DEATH  OF  KWASIND. 


Far  and  wide  among  the  nations 
Spread  the  name  and  fame  of  Kwasind ; 

No  man  dared  to  strive  with  Kwasind, 

No  man  could  compete  with  Kwasind. 

But  the  mischievous  Puk-Wudjies, 

They  the  envious  Little  People, 

They  the  fairies  and  the  pygmies, 

Plotted  and  conspired  against  him. 

“ If  this  hateful  Kwasind,”  said  they, 

“ If  this  great,  outrageous  fellow 
Goes  on  thus  a little  longer, 

Tearing  everything  he  touches, 

Rending  everything  to  pieces, 

Filling  all  the  world  with  wonder, 

What  becomes  of  the  Puk-Wudjies? 

Who  will  care  for  the  Puk-Wudjies? 

He  will  tread  us  down  like  mushrooms, 
Drive  us  all  into  the  water, 

Give  our  bodies  to  be  eaten 
By  the  wicked  Nee-ba-naw-baigs, 

By  the  Spirits  of  the  water ! ” 

So  the  angry  Little  People 
All  conspired  against  the  Strong  Man, 

All  conspired  to  murder  Kwasind, 

Yes,  to  rid  the  world  of  Kwasind, 

The  audacious,  overbearing, 

Heartless,  haughty,  dangerous  Kwasind ! 

Now  this  wondrous  strength  of  Kwasind 
In  his  crown  alone  was  seated; 

In  his  crown  too  was  his  weakness  ; 

There  alone  could  he  be  wounded, 

Nowhere  else  could  weapon  pierce  him, 
Nowhere  else  could  weapon  harm  him. 

Even  there  the  only  weapon 
That  could  wound  him,  that  could  slay  him, 
Was  the  seed-cone  of  the  pine-tree, 

Was  the  blue  cone  of  the  fir-tree. 

This  was  Kwasind’s  fatal  secret, 

Known  to  no  man  among  mortals  ; 

But  the  cunning  Little  People, 

The  Puk-Wudjies,  knew  the  secret, 

Knew  the  only  way  to  kill  him. 

So  they  gathered  cones  together. 
Gathered  seed-cones  of  the  pine-tree, 

36 


Gathered  blue  cones  of  the  fir-tree, 

In  the  woods  by  Taquamenaw, 

Brought  them  to  the  river’s  margin, 
Heaped  them  in  great  piles  together, 
Where  the  red  rocks  from  the  margin 
Jutting  overhang  the  river. 

There  they  lay  in  wait  for  Kwasind, 

The  malicious  Little  People. 

’T  was  an  afternoon  in  Summer ; 

Very  hot  and  still  the  air  was, 

Very  smooth  the  gliding  river, 

Motionless  the  sleeping  shadows : 

Insects  glistened  in  the  sunshine, 

Insects  skated  on  the  water, 

Filled  the  drowsy  air  with  buzzing, 

With  a far  resounding  war-cry. 

Down  the  river  came  the  Strong  Man, 
In  his  birch  canoe  came  Kwasind, 
Floating  slowly  down  the  current 
Of  the  sluggish  Taquamenaw, 

Very  languid  with  the  weather, 

Very  sleepy  with  the  silence. 

From  the  overhanging  branches, 

From  the  tassels  of  the  bircli-trees, 

Soft  the  Spirit  of  Sleep  descended ; 

By  his  airy  hosts  surrounded, 

His  invisible  attendants, 

Came  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepaliwin  ; 
Like  the  burnished  Dush-kwo-ne-she, 
Like  a dragon-fly,  he  hovered 
O’er  the  drowsy  head  of  Kwasind. 

To  his  ear  there  came  a murmur 
As  of  waves  upon  a sea-sliore, 

As  of  far-off  tumbling  waters, 

As  of  winds  among  the  pine-trees  ; 

And  he  felt  upon  his  forehead 
Blows  of  little  airy  war-clubs, 

Wielded  by  the  slumbrous  legions 
Of  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepaliwin, 

As  of  some  one  breathing  on  him. 

At  the  first  blow  of  their  war-clubs, 
Fell  a drowsiness  on  Kwasind; 

At  the  second  blow  they  smote  him, 
Motionless  his  paddle  rested ; 


282 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


At  the  third,  before  his  vision 
Reeled  the  landscape  into  darkness, 

Very  sound  asleep  was  Ivwasind. 

So  he  floated  down  the  river, 

Like  a blind  man  seated  upright, 

Floated  down  the  Taquamenaw, 

Underneath  the  trembling  birch-trees, 
Underneath  the  wooded  headlands, 
Underneath  the  war  encampment 
Of  the  pygmies,  the  Puk-Wudjies. 

There  they  stood,  all  armed  and  waiting, 
Hurled  the  pine-cones  down  upon  him, 
Struck  him  on  his  brawny  shoulders, 

On  his  crown  defenceless  struck  him. 

“ Death  to  Kwasind  ! ” was  the  sudden 
War-cry  of  the  Little  People. 


And  he  sideways  swayed  and  tumbled, 
Sideways  fell  into  the  river, 

Plunged  beneath  the  sluggish  water 
Headlong,  as  an  otter  plunges ; 

And  the  birch  canoe,  abandoned, 

Drifted  empty  down  the  river, 

Bottom  upward  swerved  and  drifted  : 
Nothing  more  was  seen  of  Kwasind. 

But  the  memory  of  the  Strong  Man 
Lingered  long  among  the  people, 

And  whenever  through  the  forest 
Raged  and  roared  the  wintry  tempest, 

And  the  branches,  tossed  and  troubled, 
Creaked  and  groaned  and  split  asunder, 

“ Kwasind  ! ” cried  they  ; “ that  is  Kwasind  ! 
He  is  gathering  in  his  fire-wood ! ” 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


283 


XIX. 

THE  GHOSTS. 


Never  stoops  the  soaring  vulture 
On  his  quarry  in  the  desert, 

On  the  sick  or  wounded  bison, 

But  another  vulture,  watching 
From  his  high  aerial  look-out, 

Sees  the  downward  plunge,  and  follows  ; 
And  a third  pursues  the  second, 

Coming  from  the  invisible  ether, 

First  a speck,  and  then  a vulture, 

Till  the  air  is  dark  with  pinions. 

So  disasters  come  not  singly  ; 

But  as  if  they  watched  and  waited, 
Scanning  one  another’s  motions, 

When  the  first  descends,  the  others 
Follow,  follow,  gathering  flock-wise 
Round  their  victim,  sick  and  wounded, 
First  a shadow,  then  a sorrow, 

Till  the  air  is  dark  with  anguish. 

Now,  o’er  all  the  dreary  Northland, 
Mighty  Peboan,  the  Winter, 

Breathing  on  the  lakes  and  rivers, 

Into  stone  has  changed  their  waters. 

From  his  hair  he  shook  the  snow-flakes, 
Till  the  plains  were  strewn  with  whiteness, 
One  uninterrupted  level, 

As  if,  stooping,  the  Creator 

With  his  hand  had  smoothed  them  over. 

Through  the  forest,  wide  and  Availing, 
Roamed  the  hunter  on  his  snoAV-shoes  ; 

In  the  village  Avorked  the  Avomen, 

Pounded  maize,  or  dressed  the  deer-skin  ; 
And  the  young  men  played  together 
On  the  ice  the  noisy  ball-play, 

On  the  plain  the  dance  of  snoAV-shoes. 

One  dark  evening,  after  sundoAvn, 

In  her  Avigwam  Laughing  Water 
Sat  Avith  old  Nokomis,  Avaiting 
For  the  steps  of  HiaAvatha 
HomeAvard  from  the  hunt  returning. 

On  their  faces  gleamed  the  fire-light. 
Painting  them  Avith  streaks  of  crimson, 

In  the  eyes  of  old  Nokomis 
Glimmered  like  the  watery  moonlight, 

In  the  eyes  of  Laughing  Water 
Glistened  like  the  sun  in  Avater  ; 


And  behind  them  crouched  their  shadows 
In  the  corners  of  the  wigwam, 

And  the  smoke  in  Avreaths  above  them 
Climbed  and  crowded  through  the  smoke- 
flue. 

Then  the  curtain  of  the  doonvay 
From  Avithout  Avas  sloAvly  lifted  ; 

Brighter  glowed  the  fire  a moment, 

And  a moment  SAverved  the  smoke-Avreath, 
As  two  Avomen  entered  softly, 

Passed  the  doorway  uninvited, 

Without  Avord  of  salutation, 

Without  sign  of  recognition, 

Sat  down  in  the  farthest  corner, 

Crouching  Ioav  among  tbe  shadoAvs. 

From  their  aspect  and  their  garments, 
Strangers  seemed  they  in  the  village ; 

Very  pale  and  haggard  Avere  they, 

As  they  sat  there  sad  and  silent, 
Trembling,  cowering  Avith  the  shadows. 

Was  it  the  wind  above  the  smoke-flue, 
Muttering  doAvn  into  the  Avigwam  ? 

Was  it  the  oavI,  the  Ivoko-koho, 

Hootino-  from  the  dismal  forest  ? 

O 

Sure  a voice  said  in  the  silence  : 

“ These  are  corpses  clad  in  garments, 

These  are  ghosts  that  come  to  haunt  you, 
From  the  kingdom  of  Ponemali, 

From  the  land  of  the  Hereafter  ! ” 
Homeward  hoav  came  Hiawatha 
From  his  hunting  in  the  forest, 

With  the  siioav  upon  his  tresses, 

And  the  red  deer  on  his  shoulders. 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Doavu  he  threw  his  lifeless  burden ; 

Nobler,  handsomer  she  thought  him, 

Than  Avhen  first  he  came  to  avoo  her, 

First  threw  down  the  deer  before  her, 

As  a token  of  his  wishes, 

As  a promise  of  the  future. 

Then  he  turned  and  saAv  the  strangers, 
CoAvering,  crouching  with  the  shadows; 
Said  Avithin  himself,  “ Who  are  they  ? 
What  strange  guests  has  Minnehaha  ! ” 

But  he  questioned  not  the  strangers, 


284 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Only  spake  to  bid  them  welcome 
To  bis  lodge,  bis  food,  liis  fireside. 

When  the  evening  meal  was  ready, 

And  the  deer  had  been  divided, 

Both  the  pallid  guests,  the  strangers, 
Springing  from  among  the  shadows, 

Seized  upon  the  choicest  portions, 

Seized  the  white  fat  of  the  roebuck, 

Set  apart  for  Laughing  Water, 

For  the  wife  of  Hiawatha  ; 

Without  asking,  without  thanking, 

Eagerly  devoured  the  morsels, 

Flitted  back  among  the  shadows 
In  the  corner  of  the  wigwam. 

Not  a word  spake  Hiawatha, 

Not  a motion  made  Nokomis, 

Not  a gesture  Laughing  Water  ; 

Not  a change  came  o’er  their  features ; 
Only  Minnehaha  softly 
Whispered,  saying,  “ They  are  famished ; 
Let  them  do  what  best  delights  them  ; 

Let  them  eat,  for  they  are  famished.” 

Many  a daylight  dawned  and  darkened. 
Many  a night  shook  off  the  daylight 
As  the  pine  shakes  off  the  snow-flakes 
From  the  midnight  of  its  branches  ; 

Day  by  day  the  guests  un moving 
Sat  there  silent  in  the  wigwam  ; 

But  by  night,  in  storm  or  starlight. 

Forth  they  went  into  the  forest, 

Bringing  fire-wood  to  the  wigwam, 
Bringing  pine-cones  for  the  burning, 
Always  sad  and  always  silent. 

And  whenever  Hiawatha 
Came  from  fishing  or  from  hunting, 

When  the  evening  meal  was  ready, 

And  the  food  had  been  divided, 

Gliding  from  their  darksome  corner, 

Came  the  pallid  guests,  the  strangers, 
Seized  upon  the  choicest  portions 
Set  aside  for  Laughing  Water, 

And  without  rebuke  or  question 
Flitted  back  among  the  shadows. 

Never  once  had  Hiawatha 
By  a word  or  look  reproved  them  ; 

Never  once  had  old  Nokomis 
Made  a gesture  of  impatience  ; 

Never  once  had  Laughing  Water 
Shown  resentment  at  the  outrage. 

All  had  they  endured  in  silence, 


That  the  rights  of  guest  and  stranger, 
That  the  virtue  of  free-giving, 

By  a look  might  not  be  lessened, 

By  a word  might  not  be  broken. 

Once  at  midnight  Hiawatha, 

Ever  wakeful,  ever  watchful, 

In  the  wigwam,  dimly  lighted 
By  the  brands  that  still  were  burning, 

By  the  glimmering,  flickering  fire-light, 
Heard  a sighing,  oft  repeated, 

Heard  a sobbing,  as  of  sorrow. 

From  his  couch  rose  Hiawatha, 

From  his  shaggy  hides  of  bison, 

Pushed  aside  the  deer-skin  curtain, 

Saw  the  pallid  guests,  the  shadows, 

Sitting  upright  on  their  couches, 

Weeping  in  the  silent  midnight. 

And  he  said  : “ O guests ! why  is  it 
That  your  hearts  are  so  afflicted, 

That  you  sob  so  in  the  midnight  ? 

Has  perchance  the  old  Nokomis, 

Has  my  wife,  my  Minnehaha, 

Wronged  or  grieved  you  by  unkindness, 
Failed  in  hospitable  duties  ? ” 

Then  the  shadows  ceased  from  weeping, 
Ceased  from  sobbing  and  lamenting, 

And  they  said,  with  gentle  voices : 

“We  are  ghosts  of  the  departed, 

Souls  of  those  who  once  were  with  you. 
From  the  realms  of  Chibiabos 
Hither  have  we  come  to  try  you, 

Hither  have  we  come  to  warn  you. 

“ Cries  of  grief  and  lamentation 
Reach  us  in  the  Blessed  Islands ; 

Cries  of  anguish  from  the  living, 

Calling  back  their  friends  departed, 
Sadden  us  with  useless  sorrow. 

Therefore  have  we  come  to  try  you  ; 

No  one  knows  us,  no  one  heeds  us. 

We  are  but  a burden  to  you, 

And  we  see  that  the  departed 
Have  no  place  among  the  living. 

“ Think  of  this,  O Hiawatha  ! 

Speak  of  it  to  all  the  people, 

That  henceforward  and  forever 
They  no  more  with  lamentations 
Sadden  the  souls  of  the  departed 
In  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 

“ Do  not  lay  such  heavy  burdens 
In  the  graves  of  those  you  bury, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


285 


Not  such  weight  of  furs  and  wampum, 
Not  such  weight  of  pots  and  kettles, 
For  the  spirits  faint  beneath  them. 
Only  give  them  food  to  carry, 

Only  give  them  fire  to  light  them. 

“Four  days  is  the  spirit’s  journey 
To  the  land  of  ghosts  and  shadows, 
Four  its  lonely  night  encampments; 
Four  times  must  their  fires  be  lighted. 
Therefore,  when  the  dead  are  buried, 
Let  a fire,  as  night  approaches, 

Four  times  on  the  grave  be  kindled, 
That  the  sold  upon  its  journey 
May  not  lack  the  cheerful  fire-light. 
May  not  grope  about  in  darkness. 

“Farewell,  noble  Hiawatha! 

We  have  put  you  to  the  trial, 

To  the  proof  have  put  your  patience, 


By  the  insult  of  our  presence, 

By  the  outrage  of  our  actions. 

We  have  found  you  great  and  noble. 
Fail  not  in  the  greater  trial, 

Faint  not  in  the  harder  struggle.” 

When  they  ceased,  a sudden  darkness 
Fell  and  filled  the  silent  wigwam. 
Hiawatha  heard  a rustle 
As  of  garments  trailing  by  him, 

Heard  the  curtain  of  the  doorway 
Lifted  by  a hand  he  saw  not, 

Felt  the  cold  breath  of  the  night  air, 
For  a moment  saw  the  star-light  ; 

But  he  saw  the  ghosts  no  longer, 

Saiv  no  more  the  wandering  spirits 
From  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 

From  the  land  of  the  Hereafter. 


XX. 

THE  FAMINE. 


Oh,  the  long  and  dreary  Winter  ! 

Oh,  the  cold  and  cruel  Winter  ! 

Ever  thicker,  thicker,  thicker 
Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river, 

Ever  deeper,  deeper,  deeper 
Fell  the  snow  o’er  all  the  landscape, 
Fell  the  covering  snow,  and  drifted 
Through  the  forest,  round  the  village. 


Hardly  from  his  buried  wigwam 
Could  the  hunter  force  a passage ; 

With  his  mittens  and  his  snow-shoes 
Vainly  walked  he  through  the  forest, 
Sought  for  bird  or  beast  and  found  none, 
Saw  no  track  of  deer  or  rabbit, 

In  the  snow  beheld  no  footprints, 

In  the  ghastly,  gleaming  forest 


286 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Fell,  and  could  not  rise  from  weakness, 
Perished  there  from  cold  and  hunger. 

Oh  the  famine  and  the  fever  ! 

Oh  the  wasting  of  the  famine  ! 

Oh  the  blasting  of  the  fever  ! 

Oh  the  wailing  of  the  children  ! 

Oh  the  anguish  of  the  women  ! 

All  the  earth  was  sick  and  famished  ; 
Hungry  was  the  air  around  them, 

Hungry  was  the  sky  above  them, 

And  the  hungry  stars  in  heaven 

Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  them ! 

Into  Hiawatha’s  wigwam 
Came  two  other  guests,  as  silent 
As  the  ghosts  were,  and  as  gloomy, 
Waited  not  to  be  invited, 

Did  not  parley  at  the  doorway, 

Sat  there  without  word  of  welcome 
In  the  seat  of  Laughing  Water ; 

Looked  with  haggard  eyes  and  hollow 
At  the  face  of  Laughing  Water. 

And  the  foremost  said  : “ Behold  me  ! 

I am  Famine,  Bukadawin  ! ” 

And  the  other  said : “ Behold  me  ! 

I am  Fever,  Ahkosewin  ! ” 

And  the  lovely  Minnehaha 
Shuddered  as  they  looked  upon  her, 
Shuddered  at  the  words  they  uttered, 

Lay  down  on  her  bed  in  silence, 

Hid  her  face,  but  made  no  answer  ; 

Lay  there  trembling,  freezing,  burning 
At  the  looks  they  cast  upon  her, 

At  the  fearful  words  they  uttered. 

Forth  into  the  empty  forest 
Rushed  the  maddened  Hiawatha  ; 

In  his  heart  was  deadly  sorrow, 

In  his  face  a stony  firmness  ; 

On  his  brow  the  sweat  of  anguish 
Started,  but  it  froze  and  fell  not. 

Wrapped  in  furs  and  armed  for  hunting, 
With  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 

With  his  quiver  full  of  arrows, 

With  his  mittens.  Minjekahwun, 

Into  the  vast  and  vacant  forest 
On  his  snow-shoes  strode  he  forward. 

“ Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty  ! ” 

Cried  he  with  his  face  uplifted 
In  that  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 

“ Give  your  children  food,  O father  ! 

Give  us  food,  or  we  must  perish ! 


Give  me  food  for  Minnehaha, 

For  my  dying  Minnehaha!” 

Through  the  far-resounding  forest, 
Through  the  forest  vast  and  vacant 
Rang  that  cry  of  desolation, 

But  there  came  no  other  answer 
Than  the  echo  of  his  crying, 

Than  the  echo  of  the  woodlands, 

“ Minnehaha  ! Minnehaha ! ” 

All  day  long  roved  Hiawatha 
In  that  melancholy  forest, 

Through  the  shadow  of  whose  thickets, 

In  the  pleasant  days  of  Summer, 

Of  that  ne’er  forgotten  Summer, 

He  had  brought  his  young  wife  homeward 
F rom  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ; 

When  the  birds  sang  in  the  thickets, 

And  the  streamlets  laughed  and  glistened, 
And  the  air  was  full  of  fragrance, 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Said  with  voice  that  did  not  tremble, 

“ I will  follow  you,  my  husband  ! ” 

In  the  wigwam  with  Nokomis, 

With  those  gloomy  guests,  that  watched 
her, 

With  the  Famine  and  the  Fever, 

She  was  lying,  the  Beloved, 

She  the  dying  Minnehaha. 

“ Hark  ! ” she  said  ; “ I hear  a rushing, 
Hear  a roaring  and  a rushing, 

Hear  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  me  from  a distance  ! ” 

“ No,  my  child  ! ” said  old  Nokomis, 

“ ’T  is  the  night-wind  in  the  pine-trees  ! ” 

“ Look  ! ’’  she  said  ; “ I see  my  father 
Standing  lonely  at  his  doorway, 

Beckoning  to  me  from  his  wigwam 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ! ” 

“ No,  my  child  ! ” said  old  Nokomis, 

“ ’T  is  the  smoke,  that  waves  and  beckons  ! ” 
“ Ah ! ” said  she,  “ the  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  me  in  the  darkness, 

I can  feel  his  icy  fingers 
Clasping  mine  amid  the  darkness ! 
Hiawatha ! Hiawatha!  ” 

And  the  desolate  Hiawatha, 

Far  away  amid  the  forest, 

Miles  away  among  the  mountains, 

Heard  that  sudden  cry  of  anguish, 

Heard  the  voice  of  Minnehaha 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


287 


Calling  to  him  in  the  darkness, 

“ Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! ” 

Over  snow-fields  waste  and  pathless, 
Under  snow-encumbered  branches, 
Homeward  hurried  Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed,  heavjMiearted, 

Heard  Nokomis  moaning,  wailing: 

“ Wahonowin  ! Wahonowin  ! 

Would  that  I had  perished  for  you, 
Would  that  I were  dead  as  you  are! 
Wahonowin  ! Wahonowin  ! ” 


And  he  rushed  into  the  wigwam, 

Saw  the  old  Nokomis  slowly 
Rocking  to  and  fro  and  moaning, 

Saw  his  lovely  Minnehaha 
Lying  dead  and  cold  before  him, 

And  his  bursting  heart  within  him 
Uttered  such  a cry  of  anguish, 

That  the  forest  moaned  and  shuddered, 
That  the  very  stars  in  heaven 
Shook  and  trembled  with  his  anguish. 

Then  he  sat  down,  still  and  speechless, 


On  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water, 

At  those  willing  feet,  that  never 
More  would  lightly  run  to  meet  him, 
Never  more  would  lightly  follow. 

With  both  hands  his  face  he  covered, 
Seven  long  days  and  nights  he  sat  there, 
As  if  in  a swoon  he  sat  there, 

Speechless,  motionless,  unconscious 
Of  the  daylight  or  the  darkness. 

Then  they  buried  Minnehaha; 

In  the  snow  a grave  they  made  her, 


In  the  forest  deep  and  darksome, 
Underneath  the  moaning  hemlocks  ; 
Clothed  her  in  her  richest  garments, 
Wrapped  her  in  her  robes  of  ermine; 
Covered  her  with  snow,  like  ermine, 
Thus  they  buried  Minnehaha. 

And  at  night  a fire  was  lighted, 

On  her  grave  four  times  was  kindled, 
For  her  soul  upon  its  journey 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 

From  his  doorway  Hiawatha 
Saw  it  burning  in  the  forest, 


288 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Lighting  up  the  gloomy  hemlocks  ; 
From  his  sleepless  bed  uprising, 

From  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 

Stood  and  watched  it  at  the  doorway, 
That  it  might  not  be  extinguished, 
Might  not  leave  her  in  the  darkness. 

“Farewell!”  said  he,  “Minnehaha! 
Farewell,  O my  Laughing  Water! 

All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you, 

All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you: 


Come  not  back  again  to  labor, 

Come  not  back  again  to  suffer, 
Where  the  Famine  and  the  Fever 
Wear  the  heart  and  waste  the  body. 
Soon  my  task  will  be  completed, 
Soon  your  footsteps  I shall  follow 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 

To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 

To  the  land  of  the  Hereafter ! ” 


XXL 

THE  WHITE  MAN’S  FOOT. 


In  his  lodge  beside  a river, 

Close  beside  a frozen  river, 

Sat  an  old  man,  sad  and  lonely. 

White  his  hair  was  as  a snow-drift ; 

Dull  and  low  his  fire  was  burning, 

And  the  old  man  shook  and  trembled. 
Folded  in  his  Waubewyon, 

In  his  tattered  white-skin-wrapper, 

Hearing  nothing  but  the  tempest 
As  it  roared  along  the  forest, 

Seeing  nothing  but  the  snow-storm, 

As  it  whirled  and  hissed  and  drifted. 

All  the  coals  were  white  with  ashes, 
And  the  fire  was  slowly  dying, 

As  a young  man,  walking  lightly, 

At  the  open  doorway  entered. 

Red  with  blood  of  youth  his  cheeks  were, 
Soft  his  eyes,  as  stars  in  Spring-time, 
Bound  his  forehead  was  with  grasses  ; 
Bound  and  plumed  with  scented  grasses, 

% On  his  lips  a smile  of  beauty, 

Filling  all  the  lodge  with  sunshine, 

In  his  hand  a bunch  of  blossoms 
Filling  all  the  lodge  with  sweetness. 

“ Ah,  my  son  ! ” exclaimed  the  old  man, 
“ Happy  are  my  eyes  to  see  you. 

Sit  here  on  the  mat  beside  me, 

Sit  here  by  the  dying  embers, 

Let  us  pass  the  night  together. 

Tell  me  of  your  strange  adventures, 

Of  the  lands  where  you  have  travelled  ; 

I will  tell  you  of  my  prowess, 

Of  my  many  deeds  of  wonder.” 

From  his  pouch  he  drew  his  peace-pipe, 
Very  old  and  strangely  fashioned  ; 


Made  of  red  stone  was  the  pipe-head, 
And  the  stem  a reed  with  feathers  ; 
Filled  the  pipe  with  bark  of  willow, 
Placed  a burning  coal  upon  it, 

Gave  it  to  his  guest,  the  stranger, 

And  began  to  speak  in  this  wise  : 

“ When  I blow  my  breath  about  me, 
When  I breathe  upon  the  landscape, 
Motionless  are  all  the  rivers, 

Hard  as  stone  becomes  the  water!” 

And  the  young  man  answered,  smiling 
“ When  I blow  my  breath  about  me, 
When  I breathe  upon  the  landscape, 
Flowers  spring  up  o’er  all  the  meadows, 
Singing,  onward  rush  the  rivers ! ” 

“ When  I shake  my  hoary  tresses,” 
Said  the  old  man  darkly  frowning, 

“All  the  land  with  snow  is  covered; 

All  the  leaves  from  all  the  branches 
Fall  and  fade  and  die  and  wither, 

For  I breathe,  and  lo  ! they  are  not. 
From  the  waters  and  the  marshes 
Rise  the  wild  goose  and  the  heron, 

Fly  away  to  distant  regions, 

For  I speak,  and  lo ! they  are  not. 

And  where’er  my  footsteps  wander, 

All  the  wild  beasts  of  the  forest 
Hide  themselves  in  holes  and  caverns, 
And  the  earth  becomes  as  flintstone  ! ” 

“ When  I shake  my  flowing  ringlets,” 
Said  the  young  man,  softly  laughing,. 

“ Showers  of  rain  fall  warm  and  welcome, 
Plants  lift  up  their  heads  rejoicing, 

Back  into  their  lakes  and  marshes 
Come  the  wild  goose  and  the  heron, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


289 


Homeward  slioots  the  arrowy  swallow, 

Sing  the  bluebird  and  the  robin, 

And  where’er  my  footsteps  wander, 

All  the  meadows  Avave  with  blossoms, 

All  the  woodlands  ring  Avith  music, 

All  the  trees  are  dark  Avith  foliage ! ” 

While  they  spake,  the  night  departed  : 
From  the  distant  realms  of  Wabun, 

From  his  shining  lodge  of  silver, 

Like  a warrior  robed  and  painted, 

Came  the  sun,  and  said,  “ Behold  me  ! 
Gheezis,  the  great  sun,  behold  me  ! ” 

Then  the  old  man’s  tongue  Avas  speechless 
And  the  air  greAV  warm  and  pleasant, 

And  upon  the  wigwam  sAveetly 
Sang  the  bluebird  and  the  robin, 

And  the  stream  began  to  murmur, 

And  a scent  of  groAving  grasses 
Through  the  lodge  Avas  gently  Avafted. 

And  Segwun,  the  youthful  stranger, 

More  distinctly  in  the  daylight 
Saw  the  icy  face  before  him ; 

It  Avas  Peboan,  the  Winter! 

From  his  eyes  the  tears  Avere  flowing, 

As  from  melting  lakes  the  streamlets, 

And  his  body  shrunk  and  dwindled 
As  the  shouting  sun  ascended, 

Till  into  the  air  it  faded, 

Till  into  the  ground  it  vanished, 

And  the  young  man  saAv  before  him, 

On  the  hearth-stone  of  the  wigwam, 

Where  the  fire  had  smoked  and  smouldered, 
Suav  the  earliest  flower  of  Spring-time, 

Suav  the  Beauty  of  the  Spring-time, 

Suav  the  Miskodeed  in  blossom. 

Thus  it  was  that  in  the  North-land 
After  that  unheard-of  coldness, 

That  intolerable  Winter, 

Came  the  Spring  Avith  all  its  splendor, 

All  its  birds  and  all  its  blossoms, 

All  its  floAvers  and  leaves  and  grasses. 

Sailing  on  the  wind  to  northward, 

Flying  in  great  flocks,  like  arrows, 

Like  huge  arrows  shot  through  heaven, 
Passed  the  swan,  the  Mahnahbezee, 
Speaking  almost  as  a man  speaks ; 

And  in  long  lines  Avaving,  bending 
Like  a bow-string  snapped  asunder, 

Came  the  Avliite  goose,  WaAV-be-wawa ; 

And  in  pairs,  or  singly  flying, 
si 


Mahng  the  loon,  Avith  clangorous  pinions, 
The  blue  heron,  the  Shuh-slmh-gah, 

And  the  grouse,  the  Mushkodasa. 

In  the  thickets  and  the  meadows 
Piped  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 

On  the  summit  of  the  lodges 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 

In  the  covert  of  the  pine-trees 
Cooed  the  pigeon,  the  Omemee, 

And  the  sorrowing  Hiawatha, 

Speechless  in  his  infinite  sorroAV, 

Heard  their  voices  calling  to  him, 

Went  forth  from  his  gloomy  doonvay, 
Stood  and  gazed  into  the  heaven, 

Gazed  upon  the  earth  and  Avaters. 

From  his  Avanderings  far  to  eastward, 
From  the  regions  of  the  morning, 

From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun, 
Homeward  hoav  returned  lagoo, 

The  great  traveller,  the  great  boaster, 

Full  of  neAV  and  strange  adventures, 
Marvels  many  and  many  wonders. 

And  the  people  of  the  A’illage 
Listened  to  him  as  he  told  them 
Of  his  marvellous  adventures, 

Laughing  answered  him  in  this  A\rise: 

“ Ugh ! it  is  indeed  lagoo  ! 

No  one  else  beholds  such  wonders  ! ” 

He  had  seen,  he  said,  a Avater 
Bigger  than  the  Big-Sea- Water, 

Broader  than  the  Gitche  Gurnee, 

Bitter  so  that  none  could  drink  it ! 

At  each  other  looked  the  warriors, 

Looked  the  women  at  each  other, 

Smiled,  and  said,  “ It  cannot  be  so  ! 

Kaw  ! ” they  said,  “ it  cannot  be  so ! ” 

O’er  it,  said  he,  o’er  this  Avater 
Came  a great  canoe  with  pinions, 

A canoe  with  wings  came  flying, 

Bigger  than  a grove  of  pine-trees, 

Taller  than  the  tallest  tree-tops  ! 

And  the  old  men  and  the  Avomen 
Looked  and  tittered  at  each  other ; 

“ Kaw  ! ” they  said,  “ Ave  don’t  believe  it ! ” 
From  its  mouth,  he  said,  to  greet  him, 
Came  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 

Came  the  thunder,  Annemeekee ! 

And  the  warriors  and  the  Avomen 
Laughed  aloud  at  poor  lagoo ; 

“ KaAV  ! ” they  said,  “ Avhat  tales  you  tell  us  ! ” 


290 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


In  it,  said  he,  came  a people, 

In  the  great  canoe  with  pinions 
Came,  he  said,  a hundred  warriors ; 
Painted  white  were  all  their  faces 
And  with  hair  their  chins  were  covered  ! 
And  the  warriors  and  the  women 
Laughed  and.  shouted  in  derision, 

Like  the  ravens  on  the  tree-tops, 

Like  the  crows  upon  the  hemlocks. 

“ Kaw  ! ” they  said,  “ what  lies  you  tell  us  ! 
Do  not  think  that  we  believe  them ! ” 
Only  Hiawatha  laughed  not, 

But  he  gravely  spake  and  answered 
To  their  jeering  and  their  jesting : 

“ True  is  all  lagoo  tells  us  ; 

I have  seen  it  in  a vision, 

Seen  the  great  canoe  with  pinions, 

Seen  the  people  with  white  faces, 

Seen  the  coming  of  this  bearded 
People  of  the  wooden  vessel 
From  the  regions  of  the  morning, 

From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun. 

“ Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 

The  Great  Spirit,  the  Creator, 

Sends  them  hither  on  Ids  errand, 

Sends  them  to  us  with  his  message. 
Wheresoe’er  they  move,  before  them 
Swarms  the  stinging  fly,  the  Alnno. 
Swarms  the  bee,  the  honey-maker ; 
Wheresoe’er  they  tread,  beneath  them 


Springs  a flower  unknown  among  us, 
Springs  the  White-man’s  Foot  in  blossom. 

“•Let  us  welcome,  then,  the  strangers, 
Hail  them  as  our  friends  and  brothers, 
And  the  heart’s  right  hand  of  friendship 
Give  them  when  they  come  to  see  us. 
Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 

Said  this  to  me  in  my  vision. 

“ I beheld,  too,  in  that  vision 
All  the  secrets  of  the  future, 

Of  the  distant  days  that  shall  be. 

I beheld  the  westward  marches 
Of  the  unknown,  crowded  nations. 

All  the  land  was  full  of  jieople, 

Restless,  struggling,  toiling,  striving, 
Speaking  many  tongues,  yet  feeling 
But  one  heart-beat  in  their  bosoms. 

In  the  woodlands  rang  their  axes, 

Smoked  their  towns  in  all  the  valleys, 
Over  all  the  lakes  and  rivers 
Rushed  their  great  canoes  of  thunder. 

“ Then  a darker,  drearier  vision 
Passed  before  me,  vague  and  cloud-like ; 

I beheld  our  nation  scattered, 

All  forgetful  of  my  counsels, 

Weakened,  warring  with  each  other: 

Saw  the  remnants  of  our  people 
Sweeping  westward,  wild  and  woful, 

Like  the  cloud-rack  of  a tempest, 

Like  the  withered  leaves  of  Autumn  ! ” 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


291 


XXII. 

HIAWATHA’S  DEPARTURE. 


By  tlie  shore  of  Gitclie  Gumee, 

By  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water, 

At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 

In  the  pleasant  Summer  morning, 
Hiawatha  stood  and  waited. 

All  the  air  was  full  of  freshness, 

All  the  earth  was  bright  and  joyous, 

And  before  him,  through  the  sunshine, 
Westward  toward  the  neighboring  forest 
Passed  in  golden  swarms  the  Ahmo, 
Passed  the  bees,  the  lioney-makers, 
Burning,  singing  in  the  sunshine. 

Bright  above  him  shone  the  heavens, 
Level  spread  the  lake  before  him  ; 

From  its  bosom  leaped  the  sturgeon, 
Sparkling,  flashing  in  the  sunshine  ; 

On  its  margin  the  great  forest 
Stood  reflected  in  the  water, 

Every  tree-top  had  its  shadow, 

Motionless  beneath  the  water. 


From  the  brow  of  Hiawatha 
Gone  was  every  trace  of  sorrow, 

As  the  fog  from  off  the  water, 

As  the  mist  from  off  the  meadow. 

With  a smile  of  joy  and  triumph, 

With  a look  of  exultation, 

As  of  one  who  in  a vision 
Sees  what  is  to  be,  but  is  not, 

Stood  and  waited  Hiawatha. 

Toward  the  sun  his  hands  were  lifted. 
Both  the  palms  spread  out  against  it, 
And  between  the  parted  fingers 
Fell  the  sunshine  on  his  features, 
Flecked  with  light  his  naked  shoulders, 
As  it  falls  and  flecks  an  oak-tree 
Through  the  rifted  leaves  and  branches. 

O’er  the  water  floating,  flying, 
Something  in  the  hazy  distance, 
Something  in  the  mists  of  morning, 
Loomed  and  lifted  from  the  water, 


292 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Now  seemed  floating,  now  seemed  flying, 
Coming  nearer,  nearer,  nearer. 

Was  it  Shingebis  the  diver? 

Or  the  pelican,  the  Shada  ? 

Or  the  heron,  the  Shuh-slmh-gah  ? 

Or  the  white  goose,  Waw-be-wawa, 

With  the  water  dripping,  flashing, 

From  its  glossy  neck  and  feathers? 

It  was  neither  goose  nor  diver, 

Neither  pelican  nor  heron, 

O’er  the  water  floating,  flying, 

Through  the  shining  mist  of  morning, 
But  a birch  canoe  with  paddles, 

Rising,  sinking  on  the  water, 

Dripping,  flashing  in  the  sunshine  ; 

And  within  it  came  a people 
From  the  distant  land  of  Wabun, 

From  the  farthest  realms  of  morning 
Came  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Prophet, 
He  the  Priest  of  Prayer,  the  Pale-face, 
With  his  guides  and  his  companions. 

And  the  noble  Hiawatha, 

With  his  hands  aloft  extended, 

Held  aloft  in  sign  of  welcome, 

Waited,  full  of  exultation, 

Till  the  birch  canoe  Avith  paddles 
Grated  on  the  shining  pebbles, 

Stranded  on  the  sandy  margin, 

Till  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Pale-face, 
With  the  cross  upon  his  bosom, 

Landed  on  the  sandy  margin. 

Then  the  joyous  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud  and  spake  in  this  Avise  : 

“ Beautiful  is  the  sun,  O strangers, 

When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! 

All  our  town  in  peace  awaits  you, 

All  our  doors  stand  open  for  you  ; 

You  shall  enter  all  our  wigwams, 

For  the  heart’s  right  hand  Ave  give  you. 

“ Never  bloomed  the  earth  so  gayly. 
Never  shone  the  sun  so  brightly, 

As  to-day  they  shine  and  blossom 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! 

Never  Avas  our  lake  so  tranquil, 

Nor  so  free  from  rocks  and  sand-bars ; 
For  your  birch  canoe  in  passing 
Has  removed  both  rock  and  sand-bar. 

“ Never  before  had  our  tobacco 
Such  a SAveet  and  pleasant  flavor, 

Never  the  broad  leaves  of  our  cornfields 


Were  so  beautiful  to  look  on, 

As  they  seem  to  us  this  morning, 

When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! ” 

And  the  Black-Robe  chief  made  answer, 
Stammered  in  his  speech  a little, 

Speaking  words  yet  unfamiliar  : 

“ Peace  be  Avith  you,  HiaAvatha, 

Peace  be  with  you  and  your  people, 

Peace  of  prayer,  and  peace  of  pardon, 
Peace  of  Christ,  and  joy  of  Mary ! ” 

Then  the  generous  Hiawatha 
Led  the  strangers  to  his  Avigwam, 

Seated  them  on  skins  of  bison, 

Seated  them  on  skins  of  ermine, 

And  the  careful,  old  Nokomis 

Brought  them  food  in  boAvls  of  basswood, 

Water  brought  in  birchen  dippers, 

And  the  calumet,  the  peace-pipe, 

Filled  and  lighted  for  their  smoking. 

All  the  old  men  of  the  village, 

All  the  warriors  of  the  nation, 

All  the  Jossakeeds,  the  prophets, 

The  magicians,  the  Wabenos, 

And  the  medicine-men,  the  Medas, 

Came  to  bid  the  strangers  Avelcome ; 

“ It  is  well,”  they  said,  “ O brothers, 

That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! ” 

In  a circle  round  the  doorway, 

With  their  pipes  they  sat  in  silence, 
Waiting  to  behold  the  strangers, 

W aiting  to  receive  their  message  ; 

Till  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Pale-face, 
From  the  wigwam  came  to  greet  them, 
Stammering  in  his  speech  a little, 

Speaking  words  yet  unfamiliar ; 

“ It  is  Avell,”  they  said,  “ O brother, 

That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! ” 

Then  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  prophet, 
Told  his  message  to  the  people, 

Told  the  purport  of  bis  mission, 

Told  them  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 

And  her  blessed  Son,  the  Saviour, 

Hoav  in  distant  lands  and  ages 
He  had  lived  on  earth  as  Ave  do ; 

Hoav  he  fasted,  prayed,  and  labored  ; 

Hoav  the  Jews,  the  tribe  accursed, 

Mocked  him,  scourged  him,  crucified  him  ; 
Hoav  he  rose  from  Avliere  they  laid  him, 
Walked  again  Avith  his  disciples, 

And  ascended  into  heaven. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


293 


And  the  chiefs  made  answer,  saying: 

“ We  have  listened  to  your  message, 

We  have  heard  your  words  of  wisdom, 
We  will  think  on  what  you  tell  us. 

It  is  well  for  us,  O brothers, 

That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! ” 

Then  they  rose  up  and  departed 
Each  one  homeward  to  his  wigwam, 

To  the  young  men  and  the  women 
Told  the  story  of  the  strangers 
Whom  the  Master  of  Life  had  sent  them 
From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun. 

Heavy  with  the  heat  and  silence 
Grew  the  afternoon  of  Summer  ; 

With  a drowsy  sound  the  forest 
Whispered  round  the  sultry  wigwam, 
With  a sound  of  sleep  the  water 
Rippled  on  the  beach  below  it  ; 

From  the  cornfields  shrill  and  ceaseless 
Sang  the  grasshopper,  Pali-puk-keena  ; 

And  the  guests  of  Hiawatha, 

Weary  with  the  heat  of  Summer, 
Slumbered  in  the  sultry  wigwam. 

Slowly  o'er  the  simmering  landscape 


Fell  the  evening’s  dusk  and  coolness, 

And  the  long  and  level  sunbeams 
Shot  their  spears  into  the  forest, 

Breaking  through  its  shields  of  shadow, 
Rushed  into  each  secret  ambush, 

Searched  each  thicket,  dingle,  hollow ; 

Still  the  guests  of  Hiawatha 
Slumbered  in  the  silent  wigwam. 

From  his  place  rose  Hiawatha, 

Bade  farewell  to  old  Nokomis, 

Spake  in  whispers,  spake  in  this  wise, 

Did  not  wake  the  guests,  that  slumbered : 

“I  am  going,  O Nokomis, 

On  a long  and  distant  journey, 

To  the  portals  of  the  Sunset, 

To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind, 

Of  the  Northwest  wind,  Keewaydin. 

But  these  guests  I leave  behind  me, 

In  your  watch  and  ward  I leave  them  ; 
See  that  never  harm  comes  near  them, 

See  that  never  fear  molests  them, 

Never  danger  nor  suspicion, 

Never  want  of  food  or  shelter, 

In  the  lodge  of  Hiawatha  ! ” 


294 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Forth  into  the  village  went  he, 

Bade  farewell  to  all  the  warriors, 

Bade  farewell  to  all  the  young  men, 

Spake  persuading,  spake  in  this  wise  : 

“ I am  going,  O my  people, 

On  a long  and  distant  journey; 

Many  moons  and  many  winters 

Will  have  come,  and  will  have  vanished, 

Ere  I come  again  to  see  3 011. 

But  my  guests  I leave  behind  me; 

Listen  to  their  words  of  wisdom, 

Listen  to  the  truth  they  tell  }rou, 

For  the  Master  of  Life  has  sent  them 
From  the  land  of  light  and  morning!” 

On  the  shore  stood  Hiawatha, 

Turned  and  waved  his  hand  at  parting ; 
On  the  clear  and  luminous  water 
Launched  his  birch  canoe  for  sailing, 

From  the  pebbles  of  the  margin 
Shoved  it  forth  into  the  water  ; 

Whispered  to  it,  “ Westward!  westward!” 
And  with  speed  it  darted  forward. 

And  the  evening  sun  descending 
Set  the  clouds  on  fire  with  redness, 

Burned  the  broad  sky,  like  a prairie, 

Left  upon  the  level  water 

One  long  track  and  trail  of  splendor, 

Down  whose  stream,  as  down  a river, 
Westward,  westward  Hiawatha 
Sailed  into  the  fiery  sunset, 


Sailed  into  the  purple  vapors, 

Sailed  into  the  dusk  of  evening. 

And  the  people  from  the  margin 
Watched  him  floating,  rising,  sinking, 

Till  the  birch  canoe  seemed  lifted 
High  into  that  sea  of  splendor, 

Till  it  sank  into  the  vapors 
Like  the  new  moon  slowly,  slowly 
Sinking  in  the  purple  distance. 

And  they  said,  “Farewell  forever!” 
Said,  “ Farewell.  O Hiawatha ! ” 

And  the  forests,  dark  and  lonely, 

Moved  through  all  their  depths  of  dark- 
ness, 

Sighed,  “ Farewell,  O Hiawatha  ! ” 

And  the  waves  upon  the  margin 
Rising,  rippling  on  the  pebbles, 

Sobbed,  “Farewell,  O Hiawatha!” 

And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gali, 

From  her  haunts  among  the  fen-lands, 
Screamed,  “ Farewell,  O Hiawatha  ! ” 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha, 

Hiawatha  the  Beloved, 

In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 

In  the  purple  mists  of  evening, 

To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind, 

Of  the  Northwest  wind  Iveewaydin, 

To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 

To  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 

To  the  land  of  the  Hereafter  ! 


till  M3RAHf 
Or  THE 

UNIVERSITY  C?  ILLINOIS 


ARTIST  - GEORGE  H.  BOUGHTON- 


'Why  does  he  not  come  himself,  and  take  the  trouble  to  woo  me? 

If  I am  not  worth  the  wooing,  I surely  am  not  worth  the  winning!" 

The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish. 


I. 

MILES  STANDISH. 

In  the  Old  Colony  days,  in  Plymouth  the  land  of  the  Pilgrims, 

To  and  fro  in  a room  of  his  simple  and  primitive  dwelling, 

Clad  in  doublet  and  hose,  and  boots  of  Cordovan  leather, 

Strode,  with  a martial  air,  Miles  Stan  dish  the  Puritan  Captain. 

Buried  in  thought  he  seemed,  with  his  hands  behind  him,  and  pausing 
Ever  and  anon  to  behold  his  glittering  weapons  of  warfare, 

Hanging  in  shining  array  along  the  walls  of  the  chamber,  — 

Cutlass  and  corselet  of  steel,  and  his  trusty  sAvord  of  Damascus, 

38 


298 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Curved  at  the  point  and  inscribed  with  its  mystical  Arabic  sentence, 

While  underneath,  in  a corner,  were  fowling-piece,  musket,  and  matchlock. 
Short  of  stature  he  was,  but  strongly  built  and  athletic, 

Broad  in  the  shoulders,  deep-chested,  with  muscles  and  sinews  of  iron ; 
Brown  as  a nut  was  his  face,  but  his  russet  beard  was  already 
Flaked  with  patches  of  snow,  as  hedges  sometimes  in  November. 

Near  him  was  seated  John  Alden,  his  friend,  and  household  companion, 
Writing  with  diligent  speed  at  a table  of  pine  by  the  window  ; 

Fair-haired,  azure-eyed,  with  delicate  Saxon  complexion. 

Having  the  dew  of  his  youth,  and  the  beauty  thereof,  as  the  captives 
Whom  Saint  Gregory  saw,  and  exclaimed,  “Not  Angles,  but  Angels.” 
Youngest  of  all  was  he  of  the  men  who  came  in  the  Mayflower. 

Suddenly  breaking  the  silence,  the  diligent  scribe  interrupting, 

Spake,  in  the  pride  of  his  heart,  Miles  Standish  the  Captain  of  Plymouth. 

“ Look  at  these  arms,”  he  said,  “ the  warlike  weapons  that  hang  here 
Burnished  and  bright  and  clean,  as  if  for  parade  or  inspection ! 

This  is  the  sword  of  Damascus  I fought  with  in  Flanders ; this  breastplate, 
Well  I remember  the  day!  once  saved  my  life  in  a skirmish; 

Here  in  front  you  can  see  the  very  dint  of  the  bullet 
Fired  point-blank  at  my  heart  by  a Spanish  arcabucero. 

Had  it  not  been  of  sheer  steel,  the  forgotten  bones  of  Miles  Standish 
Would  at  this  moment  be  mould,  in  their  grave  in  the  Flemish  morasses.” 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  but  looked  not  up  from  his  writing : 

“ Truly  the  breath  of  the  Lord  hath  slackened  the  speed  of  the  bullet ; 

He  in  his  mercy  preserved  you,  to  be  our  shield  and  our  weapon ! ” 

Still  the  Captain  continued,  unheeding  the  words  of  the  stripling : 

“ See,  how  bright  they  are  burnished,  as  if  in  an  arsenal  hanging  ; 

That  is  because  I have  done  it  myself,  and  not  left  it  to  others. 

Serve  yourself,  would  you  be  well  served,  is  an  excellent  adage ; 

So  I take  care  of  my  arms,  as  you  of  your  pens  and  your  inkhorn. 

Then,  too,  there  are  my  soldiers,  my  great,  invincible  army, 

Twelve  men,  all  equipped,  having  each  his  rest  and  his  matchlock, 
Eighteen  shillings  a month,  together  with  diet  and  pillage, 

And,  like  Caesar,  I know  the  name  of  each  of  my  soldiers  ! ” 

This  he  said  with  a smile,  that  danced  in  his  eyes,  as  the  sunbeams 
Dance  on  the  waves  of  the  sea,  and  vanish  again  in  a moment. 

Alden  laughed  as  he  wrote,  and  still  the  Captain  continued : 

“ Look ! you  can  see  from  this  window  my  brazen  howitzer  planted 
High  on  the  roof  of  the  church,  a preacher  who  speaks  to  the  purpose, 
Steady,  straightforward,  and  strong,  with  irresistible  logic, 

Orthodox,  flashing  conviction  right  into  the  hearts  of  the  heathen. 

Now  we  are  ready,  I think,  for  any  assault  of  the  Indians  ; 

Let  them  come,  if  they  like,  and  the  sooner  they  try  it  the  bettei1,  — 

Let  them  come,  if  they  like,  be  it  sagamore,  sachem,  or  pow-wow, 

Aspinet,  Samoset,  Corbitant,  Squanto,  or  Tokamahamon  ! ” 

Long  at  the  window  he  stood,  and  wistfully  gazed  on  the  landscape, 
Washed  with  a cold  gray  mist,  the  vapory  breath  of  the  east-wind, 

Forest  and  meadow  and  hill,  and  the  steel-blue  rim  of  the  ocean, 


I IE  Nil  Y WA  DS  WOE  77/  /,  ON  G FELL  O W. 


299 


Lying  silent  and  sad,  in  the  afternoon  shadows  and  sunshine. 

Over  his  countenance  flitted  a shadow  like  those  on  the  landscape, 

Gloom  intermingled  with  light;  and  his  voice  was  subdued  with  emotion, 
Tenderness,  pity,  regret,  as  after  a pause  he  proceeded  : 

Yonder  there,  on  the  hill  by  the  sea,  lies  buried  Rose  Standish; 

Beautiful  rose  of  love,  that  bloomed  for  me  by  the  wayside! 

She  was  the  first  to  die  of  all  who  came  in  the  Mayflower ! 

Green  above  her  is  growing  the  field  of  wheat  we  have  sown  there, 


Better  to  hide  from  the  Indian  scouts  the  graves  of  our  people, 

Lest  they  should  count  them  and  see  how  many  already  have  perished  ! " 
Sadly  his  face  he  averted,  and  strode  up  and  down,  and  was  thoughtful. 

Fixed  to  the  opposite  wall  was  a shelf  of  books,  and  among  them 
Prominent  three,  distinguished  alike  for  bulk  and  for  binding ; 

Bariffe’s  Artillery  Guide,  and  the  Commentaries  of  Ccesar 
Out  of  the  Latin  translated  by  Arthur  Goldinge  of  London, 

And,  as  if  guarded  by  these,  between  them  was  standing  the  Bible. 
Musing  a moment  before  them,  Miles  Standish  paused,  as  if  doubtful 
Which  of  the  three  he  should  choose  for  his  consolation  and  comfort, 
Whether  the  wars  of  the  Hebrews,  the  famous  campaigns  of  the  Romans, 


300 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Or  the  Artillery  practice,  designed  for  belligerent  Christians. 

Finally  down  from  its  shelf  he  dragged  the  ponderous  Roman, 

Seated  himself  at  the  window,  and  opened  the  book,  and  in  silence 
Turned  o’er  the  well-worn  leaves,  where  thumb-marks  thick  on  the  margin, 
Like  the  trample  of  feet,  proclaimed  the  battle  was  hottest, 

Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurrying  pen  of  the  stripling, 
Busily  writing  epistles  important,  to  go  by  the  Mayflower, 

Ready  to  sail  on  the  morrow,  or  next  day  at  latest,  God  willing ! 
Homeward  bound  with  the  tidings  of  all  that  terrible  winter, 

Letters  written  by  Alden,  and  full  of  the  name  of  Priscilla ! 

Full  of  the  name  and  the  fame  of  the  Puritan  maiden  Priscilla! 


II. 

LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 

Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurrying  pen  of  the  stripling, 

Or  an  occasional  sigh  from  the  laboring  heart  of  the  Captain, 

Reading  the  marvellous  words  and  achievements  of  Julius  Caesar. 

After  a while  he  exclaimed,  as  he  smote  with  his  hand,  palm  downwards, 
Heavily  on  the  page:  “A  wonderful  man  was  this  Caesar! 

You  are  a writer,  and  I am  a fighter,  but  here  is  a fellow 
Who  could  both  write  and  fight,  and  in  both  was  equally  skilful  ! ” 

Straightway  answered  and  spake  John  Alden,  the  comely,  the  youthful : 

“ Yes,  he  was  equally  skilled,  as  you  say,  with  his  pen  and  his  weapons. 
Somewhere  have  I read,  but  where  I forget,  he  could  dictate 
Seven  letters  at  once,  at  the  same  time  writing  his  memoirs.” 

“ Truly,”  continued  the  Captain,  not  heeding  or  hearing  the  other, 

“ Truly  a wonderful  man  was  Cains  Julius  Caesar  ! 

Better  be  first,  he  said,  in  a little  Iberian  village, 

Than  be  second  in  Rome,  and  I think  he  was  right  when  he  said  it. 

Twice  was  he  married  before  he  Avas  twenty,  and  many  times  after ; 

Battles  five  hundred  he  fought,  and  a thousand  cities  he  conquered ; 

He,  too,  fought  in  Flanders,  as  he  himself  has  recorded  ; 

Finally  he  was  stabbed  by  his  friend,  the  orator  Brutus  ! 

Now,  do  you  know  what  he  did  on  a certain  occasion  in  Flanders, 

When  the  rear-guard  of  his  army  retreated,  the  front  giving  way  too, 

And  the  immortal  Twelfth  Legion  was  crowded  so  closely  together 
There  was  no  room  for  their  swords  ? Why,  he  seized  a shield  from  a soldier, 
Put  himself  straight  at  the  head  of  his  troops,  and  commanded  the  captains, 
Calling  on  each  by  his  name,  to  order  forward  the  ensigns  ; 

Then  to  widen  the  ranks,  and  give  more  room  for  their  weapons  ; 

So  he  won  the  day,  the  battle  of  something-or-other. 

That ’s  what  I always  say;  if  you  wish  a thing  to  be  well  done, 

You  must  do  it  yourself,  you  must  not  leave  it  to  others ! ” 

All  was  silent  again  ; the  Captain  continued  his  reading. 

Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurrying  pen  of  the  stripling 
Writing  epistles  important  to  go  next  day  by  the  Mayflower, 


HENli  Y WADS  WO  It  Til  L ON  OF  DLL  0 W. 


301 


Filled  with  the  name  and  the  fame  of  the  Puritan  maiden  Priscilla  ; 

Every  sentence  began  or  closed  with  the  name  of  Priscilla, 

Till  the  treacherous  pen,  to  which  he  confided  the  secret, 

Strove  to  betray  it  by  singing  and  shouting  the  name  of  Priscilla ! 

Finally  closing  his  book,  with  a bang  of  the  ponderous  cover, 

Sudden  and  loud  as  the  sound  of  a soldier  grounding  his  musket, 

Thus  to  the  young  man  spake  Miles  Standish  the  Captain  of  Plymouth  : 

“ When  you  have  finished  your  work,  1 have  something  important  to  tell  you. 
Be  not  however  in  haste  : I can  wait ; I shall  not  be  impatient ! ” 
Straightway  Alden  replied,  as  he  folded  the  last  of  his  letters, 

Pushing  his  papers  aside,  and  giving  respectful  attention : 

“ Speak ; for  whenever  you  speak,  I am  always  ready  to  listen, 

Always  ready  to  hear  whatever  pertains  to  Miles  Standish.” 

Thereupon  answered  the  Captain,  embarrassed,  and  culling  his  phrases : 


302 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


“ 'T  is  not  good  for  a man  to  be  alone,  say  the  Scriptures, 

This  I have  said  before,  and  again  and  again  I repeat  it  ; 

Every  hour  in  the  day,  I think  it,  and  feel  it,  and  say  it. 

Since  Rose  Standish  died,  my  life  has  been  weary  and  dreary ; 

Sick  at  heart  have  I been,  beyond  the  healing  of  friendship  ; 

Oft  in  my  lonely  hours  have  I thought  of  the  maiden  Priscilla. 

She  is  alone  in  the  world ; her  father  and  mother  and  brother 
Died  in  the  winter  together;  I saw  her  going  and  coming, 

Now  to  the  grave  of  the  dead,  and  now  to  the  bed  of  the  dying. 

Patient,  courageous,  and  strong,  and  said  to  myself,  that  if  ever 
There  were  angels  on  earth,  as  there  are  angels  in  heaven, 

Two  have  I seen  and  known  ; and  the  angel  whose  name  is  Priscilla 
Holds  in  my  desolate  life  the  place  which  the  other  abandoned. 

Long  have  I cherished  the  thought,  but  never  have  dared  to  reveal  it, 

Being  a coward  in  this,  though  valiant  enough  for  the  most  part. 

Go  to  the  damsel  Priscilla,  the  loveliest  maiden  of  Plymouth, 

Say  that  a blunt  old  Captain,  a man  not  of  words  but  of  actions, 

Offers  his  hand  and  his  heart,  the  hand  and  heart  of  a soldier. 

Not  in  these  words,  you  know,  but  this  in  short  is  my  meaning  ; 

I am  a maker  of  war,  and  not  a maker  of  phrases. 

You,  who  are  bred  as  a scholar,  can  say  it  in  elegant  language, 

Such  as  you  read  in  yonr  books  of  the  pleadings  and  wooings  of  lovers, 

Such  as  you  think  best  adapted  to  win  the  heart  of  a maiden.” 

When  he  had  spoken,  John  Alden,  the  fair-liaired,  taciturn  stripling, 

All  aghast  at  his  words,  surprised,  embarrassed,  bewildered, 

Trying  to  mask  his  dismay  by  treating  the  subject  with  lightness, 

Trying  to  smile,  and  yet  feeling  his  heart  stand  still  in  li is  bosom. 

Just  as  a timepiece  stops  in  a house  that  is  stricken  by  lightning, 

Thus  made  answer  and  spake,  or  rather  stammered  than  answered : 

“ Such  a message  as  that,  I am  sure  I should  mangle  and  mar  it ; 

If  yon  would  have  it  well  done,  — I am  only  repeating  your  maxim,  — 

You  must  do  it  yourself,  you  must  not  leave  it  to  others  ! ” 

But  with  the  air  of  a man  whom  nothing  can  turn  from  his  purpose, 
Gravely  shaking  his  head,  made  answer  the  Captain  of  Plymouth  : 

“ Truly  the  maxim  is  good,  and  I do  not  mean  to  gainsay  it ; 

But  we  must  use  it  discreetly,  and  not  waste  powder  for  nothing. 

Now,  as  I said  before,  I was  never  a maker  of  phrases. 

I can  march  up  to  a fortress  and  summon  the  place  to  surrender, 

But  march  up  to  a woman  with  such  a proposal,  I dare  not. 

I "m  not  afraid  of  bullets,  nor  shot  from  the  mouth  of  a cannon. 

But  of  a thundering  ‘ No  ! ’ point-blank  from  the  mouth  of  a woman, 

That  I confess  I "m  afraid  of,  nor  am  I ashamed  to  confess  it ! 

So  you  must  grant  my  request,  for  you  are  an  elegant  scholar, 

Having  the  graces  of  speech,  and  skill  in  the  turning  of  phrases.  ’ 

Taking  the  hand  of  his  friend,  who  still  was  reluctant  and  doubtful, 

Holding  it  long  in  his  own,  and  pressing  it  kindly,  he  added  : 

“ Though  I have  spoken  thus  lightly,  yet  deep  is  the  feeling  that  prompts  me 
Surely  you  cannot  refuse  what  I ask  in  the  name  of  our  friendship  ! 

Then  made  answer  John  Alden : “ The  name  of  friendship  is  sacred ; 


HENR  Y WA  DS  IVOR  Til  L ON  G FELL  0 IV. 


What  you  demand  in  that  name,  I have  not  the  power  to  deny  you  ! ” 
So  the  strong  will  prevailed,  subduing  and  moulding  the  gentler, 
Friendship  prevailed  over  love,  and  Alden  went  on  his  errand. 


III. 

THE  LOVER’S  ERRAND. 

So  the  strong  will  prevailed,  and  Alden  went  on  his  errand, 

Out  of  the  street  of  the  village,  and  into  the  paths  of  the  forest, 

Into  the  tranquil  woods,  where  bluebirds  and  robins  were  building 
Towns  in  the  populous  trees,  with  hanging  gardens  of  verdure, 

Peaceful,  aerial  cities  of  joy  and  affection  and  freedom. 

All  around  him  was  calm,  but  within  him  commotion  and  conflict, 

Love  contending  with  friendship,  and  self  with  each  generous  impulse. 

To  and  fro  in  his  breast  his  thoughts  were  heaving  and  dashing, 

As  in  a foundering  ship,  with  every  roll  of  the  vessel, 

Washes  the  bitter  sea,  the  merciless  surge  of  the  ocean! 

“Must  I relinquish  it  all,”  he  cried  with  a wild  lamentation, — 

“ Must  I relinquish  it  all,  the  joy,  the  hope,  the  illusion  ? 

Was  it  for  this  I have  loved,  and  waited,  and  worshipped  in  silence? 

Was  it  for  this  I have  followed  the  flying  feet  and  the  shadow 
Over  the  wintry  sea,  to  the  desolate  shores  of  New  England  ? 

Truly  the  heart  is  deceitful,  and  out  of  its  depths  of  corruption 
Ilise,  like  an  exhalation,  the  misty  phantoms  of  passion  ; 

Angels  of  light  they  seem,  but  are  only  delusions  of  Satan. 

All  is  clear  to  me  now  ; I feel  it,  I see  it  distinctly  ! 

This  is  the  hand  of  the  Lord ; it  is  laid  upon  me  in  anger, 

For  I have  followed  too  much  the  heart’s  desires  and  devices, 

Worshipping  Astarotli  blindly,  and  impious  idols  of  Baal. 

This  is  the  cross  I must  bear  ; the  sin  and  the  swift  retribution.” 

So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  John  Alden  went  on  his  errand  ; 
Crossing  the  brook  at  the  ford,  where  it  brawled  over  pebble  and  shallow, 
Gathering  still,  as  he  went,  the  May-flowers  blooming  around  him, 
Fragrant,  Ailing  the  air  Avith  a strange  and  Avonderful  sweetness, 

Children  lost  in  the  woods,  and  covered  Avith  leaAres  in  their  slumber. 
“Puritan  floAvers,”  he  said,  “and  the  type  of  Puritan  maidens, 

Modest  and  simple  and  sweet,  the  A'ery  type  of  Priscilla  ! 

So  I Avill  take  them  to  her  ; to  Priscilla  the  May-flower  of  Plymouth, 
Modest  and  simple  and  sweet,  as  a parting  gift  will  1 take  them  ; 
Breathing  their  silent  farewells,  as  they  fade  and  Avither  and  perish, 

Soon  to  be  tliroAvn  away  as  is  the  heart  of  the  giver.” 

So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  John  Alden  Avent  on  his  errand ; 

Came  to  an  open  space,  and  saAv  the  disk  of  the  ocean, 

Sailless,  sombre  and  cold  with  the  comfortless  breath  of  the  east-Avind ; 

SaAv  the  new-built  house,  and  people  at  .Avork  in  a meadoAv; 

Heard,  as  he  drew  near  the  door,  the  musical  voice  of  Priscilla 
Singing  the  hundredth  Psalm,  the  grand  old  Puritan  anthem, 


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THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Music  that  Luther  sang  to  the  sacred  words  of  the  Psalmist, 

Full  of  the  breath  of  the  Lord,  consoling  and  comforting  many. 

Then,  as  he  opened  the  door,  he  beheld  the  form  of  the  maiden 
Seated  beside  her  wheel,  and  the  carded  wool  like  a snow-drift 
Piled  at  her  knee,  her  white  hands  feeding  the  ravenous  spindle, 

While  with  her  foot  on  the  treadle  she  guided  the  wheel  in  its  motion. 
Open  wide  on  her  lap  lay  the  well-worn  psalm-book  of  Ainsworth, 

Printed  in  Amsterdam,  the  words  and  the  music  together, 

Rough-hewn,  angular  notes,  like  stones  in  the  wall  of  a churchyard, 
Darkened  and  overhung  by  the  running  vine  of  the  verses. 

Such  was  the  book  from  whose  pages  she  sang  the  old  Puritan  anthem, 

She,  the  Puritan  girl,  in  the  solitude  of  the  forest, 

Making  the  humble  house  and  the  modest  apparel  of  home-spun 
Beautiful  with  her  beauty,  and  rich  with  the  wealth  of  her  being! 

Over  him  rushed,  like  a wind  that  is  keen  and  cold  and  relentless, 
Thoughts  of  what  might  have  been,  and  the  weight  and  woe  of  his  errand ; 
All  the  dreams  that  had  faded,  and  all  the  hopes  that  had  vanished, 

All  his  life  henceforth  a dreary  and  tenantless  mansion, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


305 

Haunted  by  vain  regrets,  and  pallid,  sorrowful  faces. 

Still  lie  said  to  himself,  and  almost  fiercely  lie  said  it, 

“ Let  not  him  that  putteth  his  hand  to  the  plough  look  backwards ; 

Though  the  ploughshare  cut  through  the  dowers  of  life  to  its  fountains, 

Though  it  pass  o'er  the  graves  of  the  dead  and  the  hearths  of  the  living, 

It  is  the  will  of  the  Lord  ; and  his  mercy  endureth  forever ! ” 

So  he  entered  the  house : and  the  hum  of  the  wheel  and  the  singing 
Suddenly  ceased  ; for  Priscilla,  aroused  by  his  step  on  the  threshold, 

Rose  as  he  entered,  and  gave  him  her  hand,  in  signal  of  welcome, 

Saying,  “I  knew  it  was  you,  when  I heard  your  step  in  the  passage; 

For  I was  thinking  of  you,  as  I sat  there  singing  and  spinning.” 

Awkward  and  dumb  with  delight,  that  a thought  of  him  had  been  mingled 
Thus  in  the  sacred  psalm,  that  came  from  the  heart  of  the  maiden, 

Silent  before  her  he  stood,  and  gave  her  the  flowers  for  an  answer, 

Finding  no  words  for  his  thought.  He  remembered  that  day  in  the  winter, 


After  the  first  great  snow,  when  he  broke  a path  from  the  village, 

Reeling  and  plunging  along  through  the  drifts  that  encumbered  the  doorway, 
Stamping  the  snow  from  his  feet  as  he  entered  the  house,  and  Priscilla 
Laughed  at  his  snowy  locks,  and  gave  him  a seat  by  the  fireside, 

Grateful  and  pleased  to  know  he  had  thought  of  her  in  the  snow-storm. 

Had  he  but  spoken  then  ! perhaps  not  in  vain  had  he  spoken  ; 

39 


306 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Now  it  was  all  too  late;  the  golden  moment  had  vanished! 

So  he  stood  there  abashed,  and  gave  her  the  flowers  for  an  answer. 

Then  they  sat  down  and  talked  of  the  birds  and  the  beautiful  Spring-time, 
Talked  of  their  friends  at  home,  and  the  Mayflower  that  sailed  on  the  morrow. 
“ 1 have  been  thinking  all  day,”  said  gently  the  Puritan  maiden, 

“Dreaming  all  night,  and  thinking  all  day,  of  the  hedge-rows  of  England, — 
They  are  in  blossom  now,  and  the  country  is  all  like  a garden ; 

Thinking  of  lanes  and  fields,  and  the  song  of  the  lark  and  the  linnet, 

Seeing  the  village  street,  and  familiar  faces  of  neighbors 
Going  about  as  of  old,  and  stopping  to  gossip  together, 

And,  at  the  end  of  the  street,  the  village  church,  with  the  ivy 
Climbing  the  old  gray  tower,  and  the  quiet  graves  in  the  churchyard. 

Kind  are  the  people  1 live  with,  and  dear  to  me  my  religion ; 

Still  my  heart  is  so  sad,  that  I wish  myself  back  in  Old  England. 

You  will  say  it  is  wrong,  but  I cannot  help  it:  I almost 

Wish  myself  back  in  Old  England,  1 feel  so  lonely  and  wretched.” 

Thereupon  answered  the  youth  : “ Indeed  I do  not  condemn  you  ; 

Stouter  hearts  than  a woman’s  have  quailed  in  this  terrible  winter. 

Y ours  is  tender  and  trusting,  and  needs  a stronger  to  lean  on ; 

So  I have  come  to  you  now,  with  an  offer  and  proffer  of  marriage 
Made  by  a good  man  and  true,  Miles  Standisli  the  Captain  of  Plymouth  ! ” 

Thus  he  delivered  his  message,  the  dexterous  writer  of  letters,  — 

Did  not  embellish  the  theme,  nor  array  it  in  beautiful  phrases, 

But  came  straight  to  the  point,  and  blurted  it  out  like  a school-boy  ; 

Even  the  Captain  himself  could  hardly  have  said  it  more  bluntly. 

Mute  with  amazement  and  sorrow,  Priscilla  the  Puritan  maiden 
Looked  into  Alden’s  face,  her  eyes  dilated  with  wonder, 

Feeling  his  words  like  a blow,  that  stunned  her  and  rendered  her  speechless  ; 
Till  at  length  she  exclaimed,  interrupting  the  ominous  silence : 

“If  the  great  captain  of  Plymouth  is  so  very  eager  to  wed  me, 

Why  does  he  not  come  himself,  and  take  the  trouble  to  woo  me  ? 

If  I am  not  worth  the  wooing,  I surely  am  not  worth  the  winning ! ” 

Then  John  Alden  began  explaining  and  smoothing  the  matter, 

Making  it  worse  as  he  went,  by  saying  the  Captain  was  busy,  — 

Had  no  time  for  such  things  ; — such  things  ! the  words  grating  harshly 
Fell  on  the  ear  of  Priscilla  ; and  swift  as  a flash  she  made  answer  : 

“ Has  he  no  time  for  such  things,  as  you  call  it,  before  he  is  married, 

Would  he  be  likely  to  find  it,  or  make  it,  after  the  wedding? 

That  is  the  way  with  you  men ; you  don't  understand  us,  you  cannot. 

When  you  have  made  up  your  minds,  after  thinking  of  this  one  and  that  one. 
Choosing,  selecting,  rejecting,  comparing  one  with  another, 

Then  you  make  known  your  desire,  with  abrupt  and  sudden  avowal, 

And  are  offended  and  hurt,  and  indignant  perhaps,  that  a woman 
Does  not  respond  at  once  to  a love  that  she  never  suspected, 

Does  not  attain  at  a bound  the  height  to  which  you  have  been  climbing. 

This  is  not  right  nor  just : for  surely  a woman’s  affection 
Is  not  a thing  to  be  asked  for,  and  had  for  only  the  asking. 


HENR  Y \VA  PS  WO R TH  L ONGFEL L O H 


307 


When  one  is  truly  in  love,  one  not  only  says  it,  but  shows  it. 

Had  he  but  waited  awhile,  had  lie  only  showed  that  he  loved  me, 

Even  this  Captain  of  yours  — who  knows?  — at  last  might  have  won  me, 
Old  and  rough  as  he  is  ; but  now  it  never  can  happen.” 

Still  John  Alden  went  on,  unheeding  the  words  of  Priscilla, 

Urging  the  suit  of  his  friend,  explaining,  persuading,  expanding ; 

Spoke  of  his  courage  and  skill,  and  of  all  his  battles  in  Flanders, 

How  with  the  people  of  God  he  had  chosen  to  suffer  affliction; 


How,  in  return  for  his  zeal,  they  had  made  him  Captain  of  Plymouth ; 

He  was  a gentleman  born,  could  trace  his  pedigree  plainly 

Back  to  Hugh  Standish  of  Duxbury  Hall,  in  Lancashire,  England, 

Who  was  the  son  of  Ralph,  and  the  grandson  of  Thurston  de  Standish  ; 
Heir  unto  vast  estates,  of  which  he  was  basely  defrauded, 


308 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Still  bore  the  family  arms,  and  had  for  his  crest  a cock  argent 
Combed  and  wattled  gules,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  blazon. 

He  was  a man  of  honor,  of  noble  and  generous  nature  ; 

Though  he  was  rough,  he  was  kindly  ; she  knew  how  during  the  winter 
He  had  attended  the  sick,  with  a hand  as  gentle  as  woman’s  ; 

Somewhat  hasty  and  hot,  he  could  not  deny  it,  and  headstrong, 

Stern  as  a soldier  might  be,  but  hearty,  and  placable  always, 

Not  to  be  laughed  at  and  scorned,  because  he  was  little  of  stature ; 

For  he  was  great  of  heart,  magnanimous,  courtly,  courageous  ; 

Any  woman  in  Plymouth,  nay,  any  woman  in  England, 

Might  be  happy  and  proud  to  be  called  the  wife  of  Miles  Standish  ! 

But  as  he  warmed  and  glowed,  in  his  simple  and  eloquent  language, 
Quite  forgetful  of  self,  and  full  of  the  praise  of  his  rival, 

Archly  the  maiden  smiled,  and,  with  eyes  overrunning  with  laughter, 
Said,  in  a tremulous  voice,  “Why  don't  you  speak  for  yourself,  John?” 

IV. 

JOHN  ALDEN. 

Into  the  open  air  John  Alden,  perplexed  and  bewildered, 

Rushed  like  a man  insane,  and  wandered  alone  by  the  sea-side ; 

Paced  up  and  down  the  sands,  and  bared  his  head  to  the  east-wind, 
Cooling  his  heated  brow,  and  the  fire  and  fever  within  him. 

Slowly  as  out  of  the  heavens,  with  apocalyptical  splendors, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


309 


Sank  the  City  of  God,  in  the  vision  of  John  the  Apostle, 

So,  with  its  cloudy  walls  of  chrysolite,  jasper,  and  sapphire, 

Sank  the  broad  red  sun,  and  over  its  turrets  uplifted 
Glimmered  the  golden  reed  of  the  angel  who  measured  the  city. 

“•Welcome,  ()  wind  of  the  East!”  he  exclaimed  in  his  wild  exultation, 

“ Welcome,  O wind  of  the  East,  from  the  caves  of  the  misty  Atlantic  ! 

Blowing  o’er  fields  of  dulse,  and  measureless  meadows  of  sea-grass, 

Blowing  o’er  rocky  wastes,  and  the  grottos  and  gardens  of  ocean  ! 

Lay  thy  cold,  moist  hand  on  my  burning  forehead,  and  wrap  me 
Close  in  thy  garments  of  mist,  to  allay  the  fever  within  me ! ” 

Like  an  awakened  conscience,  the  sea  was  moaning  and  tossing. 

Beating  remorseful  and  loud  the  mutable  sands  of  the  sea-shore. 

Fierce  in  his  soul  was  the  struggle  and  tumult  of  passions  contending ; 

Love  triumphant  and  crowned,  and  friendship  wounded  and  bleeding, 

Passionate  cries  of  desire,  and  importunate  pleadings  of  duty  ! 

“ Is  it  my  fault,”  he  said,  “ that  the  maiden  has  chosen  between  us  ? 

Is  it  my  fault  that  he  failed,  — my  fault  that  I am  the  victor  ? ” 

Then  within  him  there  thundered  a voice,  like  the  voice  of  the  Prophet : 

“It  hath  displeased  the  Lord!” — and  he  thought  of  David’s  transgression, 
Bathsheba’s  beautiful  face,  and  his  friend  in  the  front  of  the  battle  ! 

Shame  and  confusion  of  guilt,  and  abasement  and  self-condemnation, 
Overwhelmed  him  at  once  ; and  he  cried  in  the  deepest  contrition : 

“ It  hath  displeased  the  Lord ! It  is  the  temptation  of  Satan  ! ” 

Then,  uplifting  his  head,  he  looked  at  the  sea,  and  beheld  there 
Dimly  thg  shadowy  form  of  the  Mayflower  riding  at  anchor, 

Rocked  on  the  rising  tide,  and  ready  to  sail  on  the  morrow  ; 

Heard  the  voices  of  men  through  the  mist,  the  rattle  of  cordage 

Thrown  on  the  deck,  the  shouts  of  the  mate,  and  the  sailors’  “ Ay,  ay,  Sir ! ” 

Clear  and  distinct,  but  not  loud,  in  the  dripping  air  of  the  twilight. 


310 


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Still  for  a moment  lie  stood,  and  listened,  and  stared  at  the  vessel, 

Then  went  hurriedly  on,  as  one  who,  seeing  a phantom, 

Stops,  then  quickens  his  pace,  and  follows  the  beckoning  shadow. 

“ Yes,  it  is  plain  to  me  now,"  he  murmured  ; “ the  hand  of  the  Lord  is 
Leading  me  out  of  the  land  of  darkness,  the  bondage  of  error, 

Through  the  sea,  that  shall  lift  the  walls  of  its  waters  around  me. 

Hiding  me,  cutting  me  off,  from  the  cruel  thoughts  that  pursue  me. 

Back  will  I go  o'er  the  ocean,  this  dreary  land  will  abandon, 

Her  whom  I may  not  love,  and  him  whom  my  heart  has  offended. 

Better  to  be  in  my  grave  in  the  green  old  churchyard  in  England, 

Close  by  my  mother’s  side,  and  among  the  dust  of  my  kindred  ; 

Better  be  dead  and  forgotten,  than  living  in  shame  and  dishonor ; 

Sacred  and  safe  and  unseen,  in  the  dark  of  the  narrow  chamber 

With  me  my  secret  shall  lie,  like  a buried  jewel  that  glimmers 

Bright  on  the  hand  that  is  dust,  in  the  chambers  of  silence  and  darkness,  — 

Yes,  as  the  marriage  ring  of  the  great  espousal  hereafter ! ” 

Thus  as  he  spake,  he  turned,  in  the  strength  of  his  strong  resolution, 
Leaving  behind  him  the  shore,  and  hurried  along  in  the  twilight, 

Through  the  congenial  gloom  of  the  forest  silent  and  sombre, 

Till  he  beheld  the  lights  in  the  seven  houses  of  Plymouth, 

Shining  like  seven  stars  in  the  dusk  and  mist  of  the  evening. 

Soon  he  entered  his  door,  and  found  the  redoubtable  Captain 
Sitting  alone,  and  absorbed  in  the  martial  pages  of  Caesar, 

Fighting  some  great  campaign  in  Hainault  or  Brabant  or  Flanders. 

“ Long  have  you  been  on  your  errand,”  he  said  with  a cheery  demeanor, 

Even  as  one  who  is  waiting  an  answer,  and  fears  not  the  issue. 

“ Not  far  off  is  the  house,  although  the  woods  are  between  ns  ; 

But  you  have  lingered  so  long,  that  while  you  were  going  and  coming 
I have  fought  ten  battles  and  sacked  and  demolished  a city. 

Come,  sit  down,  and  in  order  relate  to  me  all  that  has  happened.” 

Then  John  Alden  spake,  and  related  the  wondrous  adventure, 

From  beginning  to  end,  minutely,  just  as  it  happened ; 

How  he  had  seen  Priscilla,  and  how  he  had  sped  in  his  courtship, 

Only  smoothing  a little,  and  softening  down  her  refusal. 

But  when  he  came  at  length  to  the  words  Priscilla  had  spoken, 

Words  so  tender  and  cruel:  “Why  don’t  you  speak  for  yourself,  John?” 

Lip  leaped  the  Captain  of  Plymouth,  and  stamped  on  the  floor,  till  his  armor 
Clanged  on  the  wall,  where  it  hung,  with  a sound  of  sinister  omen. 

All  his  pent-up  wrath  burst  forth  in  a sudden  explosion, 

E'en  as  a hand-grenade,  that  scatters  destruction  around  it. 

Wildly  he  shouted,  and  loud:  “John  Alden!  you  have  betrayed  me! 

Me,  Miles  Standish,  your  friend ! have  supplanted,  defrauded,  betrayed  me  ! 
One  of  my  ancestors  ran  his  sword  through  the  heart  of  Wat  Tyler; 

Who  shall  prevent  me  from  running  my  own  through  the  heart  of  a traitor  ? 
Yours  is  the  greater  treason,  for  yours  is  a treason  to  friendship  ! 

You,  who  lived  under  my  roof,  whom  I cherished  and  loved  as  a brother  ; 
You,  who  have  fed  at  my  board,  and  drunk  at  my  cup,  to  whose  keeping 
I have  intrusted  my  honor,  my  thoughts  the  most  sacred  and  secret,  — 


HENR  Y W.A  DS  WORTH  L ONGFEL  L 0 W. 


311 


You  too,  Brutus  ! ah  woe  to  the  name  of  friendship  hereafter ! 

Brutus  Avas  Cyesar’s  friend,  and  you  were  mine,  but  henceforward 
Let  there  be  nothing  between  us  save  war,  and  implacable  hatred ! " 

So  spake  the  Captain  of  Plymouth,  and  strode  about  in  the  chamber, 
Chafing  and  choking  with  rage;  like  cords  were  the  veins  on  Ids  temples. 
But  in  the  midst  of  his  anger  a man  appeared  at  the  doorway, 

Bringing  in  uttermost  haste  a message  of  urgent  importance, 

Rumors  of  danger  and  war  and  hostile  incursions  of  Indians ! 

Straightway  the  Captain  paused,  and,  without  further  question  or  parley. 
Took  from  the  nail  on  the  Avail  his  sword  Avith  its  scabbard  of  iron, 
Buckled  the  belt  round  his  Avaist,  and,  frowning  fiercely,  departed. 

Alden  Avas  left  alone.  He  heard  the  clank  of  the  scabbard 
Growing  fainter  and  fainter,  and  dying  aAvay  in  the  distance. 

Then  he  arose  from  his  seat,  and  looked  forth  into  the  darkness, 

Felt  the  cool  air  blow  on  his  cheek,  that  Avas  hot  Avith  the  insult, 

Lifted  his  eyes  to  the  heavens,  and,  folding  his  hands  as  in  childhood, 
Prayed  in  the  silence  of  night  to  the  Father  Avho  seeth  in  secret. 


Meanwhile  the  choleric  Captain  strode  wrathful  away  to  the  council. 
Found  it  already  assembled,  impatiently  Avaiting  his  coming ; 

Men  in  the  middle  of  life,  austere  and  grave  in  deportment, 

Only  one  of  them  old,  the  hill  that  was  nearest  to  heaven, 

Covered  with  snow,  but  erect,  the  excellent  Elder  of  Plymouth. 


312 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


God  had  sifted  three  kingdoms  to  find  the  wheat  for  this  planting, 

Then  had  sifted  the  wheat,  as  the  living  seed  of  a nation  ; 

So  say  the  chronicles  old,  and  such  is  the  faith  of  the  people ! 

Near  them  was  standing  an  Indian,  in  attitude  stern  and  defiant, 

Naked  down  to  the  waist,  and  grim  and  ferocious  in  aspect ; 

While  on  the  table  before  them  was  lying  unopened  a Bible, 

Ponderous,  bound  in  leather,  brass-studded,  printed  in  Holland, 

And  beside  it  outstretched  the  skin  of  a rattlesnake  glittered, 

Filled,  like  a quiver,  with  arrows  ; a signal  and  challenge  of  warfare, 
Brought  by  the  Indian,  and  speaking  with  arrowy  tongues  of  defiance. 
This  Miles  Standish  beheld,  as  he  entered,  and  heard  them  debating 
What  wei’e  an  answer  befitting  the  hostile  message  and  menace, 

Talking  of  this  and  of  that,  contriving,  suggesting,  objecting ; 

One  voice  only  for  peace,  and  that  the  voice  of  the  Elder, 

Judging  it  wise  and  well  that  some  at  least  were  converted, 

Rather  than  any  were  slain,  for  this  was  but  Christian  behavior ! 

Then  out  spake  Miles  Standish,  the  stalwart  Captain  of  Plymouth, 
Muttering  deep  in  his  throat,  for  his  voice  was  husky  with  anger, 

“ What ! do  you  mean  to  make  war  with  milk  and  the  water  of  roses  ? 

Is  it  to  shoot  red  squirrels  you  have  your  howitzer  planted 
There  on  the  roof  of  the  church,  or  is  it  to  shoot  red  devils  ? 

Truly  the  only  tongue  that  is  understood  by  a savage 

Must  be  the  tongue  of  fire  that  speaks  from  the  mouth  of  the  cannon  ! ” 

Thereupon  answered  and  said  the  excellent  Elder  of  Plymouth, 

Somewhat  amazed  and  alarmed  at  this  irreverent  language : 

“ Not  so  thought  St.  Paul,  nor  yet  the  other  Apostles  ; 

Not  from  the  cannon’s  mouth  were  the  tongues  of  fire  they  spake  with  ! ” 
But  unheeded  fell  this  mild  rebuke  on  the  Captain, 

Who  had  advanced  to  the  table,  and  thus  continued  discoursing : 

“ Leave  this  matter  to  me,  for  to  me  by  right  it  pertaineth. 

War  is  a terrible  trade  ; but  in  the  cause  that  is  righteous, 

Sweet  is  the  smell  of  powder ; and  thus  I answer  the  challenge ! ” 

Then  from  the  rattlesnake’s  skin,  with  a sudden,  contemptuous  gesture, 
Jerking  the  Indian  arrows,  he  filled  it  with  powder  and  bullets 
Full  to  the  very  jaws,  and  handed  it  back  to  the  savage, 

Saying,  in  thundering  tones:  “■Here,  take  it!  this  is  your  answer!” 
Silently  out  of  the  room  then  glided  the  glistening  savage, 

Bearing  the  serpent’s  skin,  and  seeming  himself  like  a serpent, 

Winding  his  sinuous  way  in  the  dark  to  the  depths  of  the  forest. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


V. 

THE  SAILING  OF  THE  MAYFLOWER. 


Just  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  the  mists  uprose  from  the  meadows, 
There  was  a stir  and  a sound  in  the  slumbering  village  of  Plymouth  ; 
Clanging  and  clicking  of  arms,  and  the  order  imperative,  “ Forward ! 

Given  in  tone  suppressed,  a tramp  of  feet,  and  then  silence. 

Figures  ten,  in  the  mist,  marched  slowly  out  of  the  village. 

Standish  the  stalwart  it  was,  with  eight  of  his  valorous  army, 

Led  by  their  Indian  guide,  by  Ilobomok,  friend  of  the  white  men, 
Northward  marching  to  quell  the  sudden  revolt  of  the  savage. 

Giants  they  seemed  in  the  mist,  or  the  mighty  men  of  King  David ; 

Giants  in  heart  they  were,  who  believed  in  God  and  the  Bible, — 

Ay,  who  believed  in  the  smiting  of  Midianites  and  Philistines. 

Over  them  gleamed  far  off  the  crimson  banners  of  morning  ; 

Under  them  loud  on  the  sands,  the  serried  billows,  advancing, 

Fired  along  the  line,  and  in  regular  order  retreated. 

Many  a mile  had  they  marched,  when  at  length  the  village  of  Plymouth 
Woke  from  its  sleep,  and  arose,  intent  on  its  manifold  labors. 

Sweet  was  the  air  and  soft ; and  slowly  the  smoke  from  the  chimneys 
Rose  over  roofs  of  thatch,  and  pointed  steadily  eastward; 

Men  came  forth  from  the  doors,  and  paused  and  talked  of  the  weather, 

40 


314 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  01 


Said  that  the  wind  had  changed,  and  was  blowing  fair  for  the  Mayflower ; 
Talked  of  their  Captain’s  departure,  and  all  the  dangers  that  menaced, 
lie  being  gone,  the  town,  and  what  should  be  done  in  his  absence. 

Merrily  sang  the  birds,  and  the  tender  voices  of  women 
Consecrated  with  hymns  the  common  cares  of  the  household. 

Out  of  the  sea  rose  the  sun,  and  the  billows  rejoiced  at  his  coming ; 

Beautiful  were  his  feet  on  the  purple  tops  of  the  mountains  ; 

Beautiful  on  the  sails  of  the  Mayflower  riding  at  anchor, 

Battered  and  blackened  and  worn  by  all  the  storms  of  the  winter. 

Loosely  against  her  masts  was  hanging  and  flapping  her  canvas, 

Rent  by  so  many  gales,  and  patched  by  the  hands  of  the  sailors. 

Suddenly  from  her  side,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  ocean, 

Darted  a puff  of  smoke,  and  floated  seaward  ; anon  rang 
Loud  over  field  and  forest  the  cannon’s  roar,  and  the  echoes 
Heard  and  repeated  the  sound,  the  signal-gun  of  departure! 

Ah  ! but  with  louder  echoes  replied  the  hearts  of  the  people ! 

Meekly,  in  voices  subdued,  the  chapter  was  read  from  the  Bible, 

Meekly  the  prayer  was  begun,  but  ended  in  fervent  entreaty ! 

Then  from  their  houses  in  haste  came  forth  the  Pilgrims  of  Plymouth, 

Men  and  women  and  children,  all  hurrying  down  to  the  sea-shore, 

Eager,  with  tearful  eyes,  to  say  farewell  to  the  Mayflower, 

Homeward  bound  o'er  the  sea,  and  leaving  them  here  in  the  desert. 

Foremost  among  them  was  Alden.  All  night  he  had  lain  without  slumber, 
Turning  and  tossing  about  in  the  heat  and  unrest  of  his  fever. 

He  had  beheld  Miles  Standish,  who  came  back  late  from  the  council, 

Stalking  into  the  room,  and  heard  him  mutter  and  murmur, 

Sometimes  it  seemed  a prayer,  and  sometimes  it  sounded  like  swearing. 

Once  he  had  come  to  the  bed,  and  stood  there  a moment  in  silence ; 

Then  he  had  turned  away,  and  said  : “ I will  not  awake  him ; 

Let  him  sleep  on,  it  is  best;  for  what  is  the  use  of  more  talking!” 

Then  he  extinguished  the  light,  and  threw  himself  down  on  his  pallet, 

Dressed  as  lie  was,  and  ready  to  start  at  the  break  of  the  morning, — 
Covered  himself  with  the  cloak  he  had  worn  in  his  campaigns  in  Flanders,  — 
Slept  as  a soldier  sleeps  in  his  bivouac,  ready  for  action. 

But  with  the  dawn  he  arose ; in  the  twilight  Alden  beheld  him 
Put  on  his  corselet  of  steel,  and  all  the  rest  of  his  armor, 

Buckle  about  his  waist  his  trusty  blade  of  Damascus, 

Take  from  the  corner  his  musket,  and  so  stride  out  of  the  chamber. 

Often  the  heart  of  the  youth  had  burned  and  yearned  to  embrace  him, 

Often  his  lips  had  essayed  to  speak,  imploring  for  pardon ; 

All  the  old  friendship  came  back,  with  its  tender  and  grateful  emotions; 

But  his  pride  overmastered  the  nobler  nature  within  him,  — 

Pride,  and  the  sense  of  his  wrong,  and  the  burning  fire  of  the  insult. 

So  he  beheld  his  friend  departing  in  anger,  but  spake  not, 

Saw  him  go  forth  to  danger,  perhaps  to  death,  and  he  spake  not! 

Then  he  arose  from  his  bed,  and  heard  what  the  people  were  saying, 

Joined  in  the  talk  at  the  door,  with  Stephen  and  Richard  and  Gilbert, 

Joined  in  the  morning  prayer,  and  in  the  reading  of  Scripture, 

And,  with  the  others,  in  haste  went  hurrying  down  to  the  sea-shore, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


315 


Down  to  the  Plymouth  Rock,  that  had  been  to  their  feet  as  a doorstep 
Into  a world  unknown,  — the  corner-stone  of  a nation! 

There  with  his  boat  was  the  Master,  already  a little  impatient 
Lest  he  should  lose  the  tide,  or  the  wind  might  shift  to  the  eastward, 
Square-built,  hearty,  and  strong,  with  an  odor  of  ocean  about  him, 
Speaking  with  this  one  and  that,  and  cramming  letters  and  parcels 
Into  his  pockets  capacious,  and  messages  mingled  together 
Into  his  narrow  brain,  till  at  last  he  was  wholly  bewildered. 


Nearer  the  boat  stood  Alden,  with  one  foot  placed  on  the  gunwale, 

One  still  firm  on  the  rock,  and  talking  at  times  with  the  sailors, 

Seated  erect  on  the  thwarts,  all  ready  and  eager  for  starting, 
lie  too  was  eager  to  go,  and  thus  put  an  end  to  his  anguish, 

Thinking  to  fly  from  despair,  that  swifter  than  keel  is  or  canvas, 

Thinking  to  drown  in  the  sea  the  ghost  that  would  rise  and  pursue  him. 
But  as  he  gazed  on  the  crowd,  he  beheld  the  form  of  Priscilla 
Standing  dejected  among  them,  unconscious  of  all  that  was  passing. 

Fixed  were  her  eyes  upon  his,  as  if  she  divined  his  intention, 

Fixed  with  a look  so  sad,  so  reproachful,  imploring,  and  patient, 

That  with  a sudden  revulsion  his  heart  recoiled  from  its  purpose, 

As  from  the  verge  of  a crag,  where  one  step  more  is  destruction. 

Strange  is  the  heart  of  man,  with  its  quick,  mysterious  instincts  ! 

Strange  is  the  life  of  man,  and  fatal  or  fated  are  moments, 

Whereupon  turn,  as  on  hinges,  the  gates  of  the  wall  adamantine  ! 

“ Here  I remain  ! ” he  exclaimed,  as  he  looked  at  the  heavens  above  him, 
Thanking  the  Lord  whose  breath  had  scattered  the  mist  and  the  madness, 
Wherein,  blind  and  lost,  to  death  he  was  staggering  headlong. 


316 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


“ Yonder  snow-white  cloud,  that  floats  in  the  ether  above  me, 

Seems  like  a hand  that  is  pointing  and  beckoning  over  the  ocean. 

There  is  another  hand,  that  is  not  so  spectral  and  ghost-like, 

Holding  me,  drawing  me  back,  and  clasping  mine  for  protection. 

Float,  O hand  of  cloud,  and  vanish  away  in  the  ether  ! 

Roll  thyself  up  like  a fist,  to  threaten  and  daunt  me  ; I heed  not 
Either  your  warning  or  menace,  or  any  omen  of  evil  ! 

There  is  no  land  so  sacred,  no  air  so  pure  and  so  wholesome, 

As  is  the  air  she  breathes,  and  the  soil  that  is  pressed  by  her  footsteps. 

Here  for  her  sake  will  I stay,  and  like  an  invisible  presence 
Hover  around  her  forever,  protecting,  supporting  her  weakness ; 

Yes  ! as  my  foot  was  the  first  that  stepped  on  this  rock  at  the  landing, 

So,  with  the  blessing  of  God,  shall  it  be  the  last  at  the  leaving  ! ” 

Meanwhile  the  Master  alert,  but  with  dignified  air  and  important, 

Scanning  with  watchful  eye  the  tide  and  the  wind  and  the  weather, 

Walked  about  on  the  sands,  and  the  people  crowded  around  him 
Saying  a few  last  words,  and  enforcing  his  careful  remembrance. 

Then,  taking  each  by  the  hand,  as  if  he  were  grasping  a tiller, 

Into  the  boat  he  sprang,  and  in  haste  shoved  off  to  his  vessel, 

Glad  in  his  heart  to  get  rid  of  all  this  worry  and  flurry, 

Glad  to  be  gone  from  a land  of  sand  and  sickness  and  sorrow, 

Short  allowance  of  victual,  and  plenty  of  nothing  but  Gospel ! 

Lost  in  the  sound  of  the  oars  was  the  last  farewell  of  the  Pilgrims. 

O strong  hearts  and  true  ! not  one  went  back  in  the  Mayflower ! 

No,  not  one  looked  back,  who  had  set  his  hand  to  this  ploughing! 

Soon  were  heard  on  board  the  shouts  and  songs  of  the  sailors 
Heaving  the  windlass  round,  and  hoisting  the  ponderous  anchor. 

Then  the  yards  were  braced,  and  all  sails  set  to  the  west-wind, 

Blowing  steady  and  strong  ; and  the  Mayflower  sailed  from  the  harbor, 

Rounded  the  point  of  the  Gurnet,  and  leaving  far  to  the  southward 
Island  and  cape  of  sand,  and  the  Field  of  the  First  Encounter, 

Took  the  wind  on  her  quarter,  and  stood  for  the  open  Atlantic, 

Borne  on  the  send  of  the  sea,  and  the  swelling  hearts  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Long  in  silence  they  watched  the  receding  sail  of  the  vessel, 

Much  endeared  to  them  all,  as  something  living  and  human ; 

Then,  as  if  filled  with  the  spirit,  and  wrapt  in  a vision  prophetic, 

Baring  his  hoary  head,  the  excellent  Elder  of  Plymouth 

Said,  “ Let  us  pray ! ” and  they  prayed,  and  thanked  the  Lord  and  took  courage. 
Mournfully  sobbed  the  waves  at  the  base  of  the  rock,  and  above  them 
Bowed  and  whispered  the  wheat  on  the  hill  of  death,  and  their  kindred 
Seemed  to  awake  in  their  graves,  and  to  join  in  the  prayer  that  they  uttered. 
Sun-illumined  and  white,  on  the  eastern  verge  of  the  ocean 
Gleamed  the  departing  sail,  like  a marble  slab  in  a graveyard  ; 

Buried  beneath  it  lay  forever  all  hope  of  escaping. 

Lo ! as  they  turned  to  depart,  they  saw  the  form  of  an  Indian, 

Watching  them  from  the  hill  ; but  while  they  spake  with  each  other, 

Pointing  with  outstretched  hands,  and  saying,  “ Look  ! ” he  had  vanished. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


So  they  returned  to  their  homes;  but  Alden  lingered  a little, 

Musing  alone  on  the  shore,  and  watching  the  wash  of  the  billows 
Round  the  base  of  the  rock,  and  the  sparkle  and  flash  of  the  sunshine, 
Like  the  spirit  of  God,  moving  visibly  over  the  waters. 


VI. 

PRISCILLA. 

Thus  for  a while  he  stood,  and  mused  by  the  shore  of  the  ocean, 
Thinking  of  many  things,  and  most  of  all  of  Priscilla  ; 

And  as  if  thought  had  the  power  to  draw  to  itself,  like  the  loadstone, 
Whatsoever  it  touches,  by  subtile  laws  of  its  nature, 

Lo  ! as  he  turned  to  depart,  Priscilla  was  standing  beside  him. 

“ Are  you  so  much  offended,  you  will  not  speak  to  me  ? ” said  she. 

“Am  I so  much  to  blame,  that  yesterday,  when  you  were  pleading 
Warmly  the  cause  of  another,  my  heart,  impulsive  and  wayward, 

Pleaded  your  own,  and  spake  out,  forgetful  perhaps  of  decorum  ? 

Certainly  you  can  forgive  me  for  speaking  so  frankly,  for  saying 
What  I ought  not  to  have  said,  yet  now  I can  never  unsay  it ; 

For  there  are  moments  in  life,  when  the  heart  is  so  full  of  emotion, 

That  if  by  chance  it  be  shaken,  or  into  its  depths  like  a pebble 
Drops  some  careless  word,  it  overflows,  and  its  secret, 

Spilt  on  the  ground  like  water,  can  never  be  gathered  together. 

Yesterday  I was  shocked,  when  I heard  you  speak  of  Miles  Standish, 
Praising  his  virtues,  transforming  his  very  defects  into  virtues, 

Praising  his  courage  and  strength,  and  even  his  fighting  in  Flanders, 

As  if  by  fighting  alone  you  could  win  the  heart  of  a woman, 

Quite  overlooking  yourself  and  the  rest,  in  exalting  your  hero. 

Therefore  I spake  as  I did,  by  an  irresistible  impulse. 

You  will  forgive  me,  I hope,  for  the  sake  of  the  friendship  between  us, 
Which  is  too  true  and  too  sacred  to  be  so  easily  broken  ! ” 

Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  the  scholar,  the  friend  of  Miles  Standish 
“ I was  not  angry  with  you,  with  myself  alone  I was  angry, 

Seeing  how  badly  I managed  the  matter  I had  in  my  keeping.” 

“ No  ! ” interrupted  the  maiden,  with  answer  prompt  and  decisive  ; 

“ No  ; you  were  angry  with  me,  for  speaking  so  frankly  and  freely. 

It  was  wrong,  I acknowledge ; for  it  is  the  fate  of  a woman 

Long  to  be  patient  and  silent,  to  wait  like  a ghost  that  is  speechless, 

Till  some  questioning  voice  dissolves  the  spell  of  its  silence. 

Plence  is  the  inner  life  of  so  many  suffering  women 
Sunless  and  silent  and  deep,  like  subterranean  rivers 
Running  through  caverns  of  darkness,  unheard,  unseen,  and  unfruitful, 
Chafing  their  channels  of  stone,  with  endless  and  profitless  murmurs.” 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  the  young  man,  the  lover  of  women: 

“ Heaven  forbid  it,  Priscilla ; and  truly  they  seem  to  me  always 
More  like  the  beautiful  rivers  that  watered  the  garden  of  Eden, 

More  like  the  river  Euphrates,  through  deserts  of  Havilali  flowing, 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Filling  the  land  with  delight,  and  memories  sweet  of  the  garden  ! ” 

“ All,  by  these  words,  I can  see,”  again  interrupted  the  maiden, 

“ How  very  little  you  prize  me,  or  care  for  what  I am  saying. 

When  from  the  depths  of  my  heart,  in  pain  and  with  secret  misgiving, 
Frankly  1 speak  to  you,  asking  for  sympathy  only  and  kindness, 

Straightway  you  take  up  my  words,  that  are  plain  and  direct  and  in  earnest, 
Turn  them  away  from  their  meaning,  and  answer  with  flattering  phrases. 

This  is  not  right,  is  not  just,  is  not  true  to  the  best  that  is  in  you  ; 

For  I know  and  esteem  you,  and  feel  that  your  nature  is  noble, 

Lifting  mine  up  to  a higher,  a more  ethereal  level. 

Therefore  I value  your  friendship,  and  feel  it  perhaps  the  more  keenly 
If  you  say  aught  that  implies  I am  only  as  one  among  many, 

If  you  make  use  of  those  common  and  complimentary  phrases 
Most  men  think  so  fine,  in  dealing  and  speaking  with  women, 

But  which  women  reject  as  insipid,  if  not  as  insulting.” 


Mute  and  amazed  was  Alden  ; and  listened  and  looked  at  Priscilla, 
Thinking  he  never  had  seen  her  more  fair,  more  divine  in  her  beauty. 

He  who  but  yesterday  pleaded  so  glibly  the  cause  of  another, 

Stood  there  embarrassed  and  silent,  and  seeking  in  vain  for  an  answer. 

So  the  maiden  went  on,  and  little  divined  or  imagined 

What  was  at  work  in  his  heart,  that  made  him  so  awkward  and  speechless. 
“ Let  us,  then,  be  what  we  are,  and  speak  what  we  think,  and  in  all  things 
Keep  ourselves  loyal  to  truth,  and  the  sacred  professions  of  friendship. 

It  is  no  secret  I tell  you,  nor  am  I ashamed  to  declare  it  : 

I have  liked  to  be  with  you,  to  see  you,  to  speak  with  you  always. 

So  I was  hurt  at  your  words,  and  a little  affronted  to  hear  you 


HENR  T WA DS  IVOR  Til  L ON G FELL  0 W. 


319 


Urge  me  to  marry  your  friend,  though  he  were  the  Captain  Miles  Standish. 

For  I must  tell  you  the  truth:  much  more  to  me  is  your  friendship 
Than  all  the  love  he  could  give,  were  he  twice  the  hero  you  think  him.” 

Then  she  extended  her  hand,  and  Alden,  who  eagerly  grasped  it, 

Felt  all  the  wounds  in  his  heart,  that  were  aching  and  bleeding  so  sorely, 
Healed  by  the  touch  of  that  hand,  and  he  said,  with  a voice  full  of  feeling: 
“Yes,  we  must  ever  be  friends;  and  of  all  who  offer  you  friendship 
Let  me  be  ever  the  first,  the  truest,  the  nearest  and  dearest ! 

Casting  a farewell  look  at  the  glimmering  sail  of  the  Mayflower, 

Distant,  but  still  in  sight,  and  sinking  below  the  horizon, 

Homeward  together  they  walked,  with  a strange,  indefinite  feeling, 

That  all  the  rest  had  departed  and  left  them  alone  in  the  desert. 

But,  as  they  went  through  the  fields  in  the  blessing  and  smile  of  the  sunshine, 
Lighter  grew  their  hearts,  and  Priscilla  said  very  archly  : 

“ Now  that  our  terrible  Captain  has  gone  in  pursuit  of  the  Indians, 

Where  he  is  happier  far  than  he  would  be  commanding  a household, 

You  may  speak  boldly,  and  tell  me  of  all  that  happened  between  you, 

When  you  returned  last  night,  and  said  how  ungrateful  you  found  me.” 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  and  told  her  the  whole  of  the  story,  — 

Told  her  his  own  despair,  and  the  direful  wrath  of  Miles  Standish. 

Whereat  the  maiden  smiled,  and  said  between  laughing  and  earnest, 

“ He  is  a little  chimney,  and  heated  hot  in  a moment ! ” 

But  as  he  gently  rebuked  her,  and  told  her  how  he  had  suffered, — 

How  he  had  even  determined  to  sail  that  day  in  the  Mayflower, 

And  had  remained  for  her  sake,  on  hearing  the  dangers  that  threatened,  — 

All  her  manner  was  changed,  and  she  said  with  a faltering  accent, 

“ Truly  I thank  you  for  this : how  good  you  have  been  to  me  always  ! ” 

Thus,  as  a pilgrim  devout,  who  toward  Jerusalem  journeys, 

Taking  three  steps  in  advance,  and  one  reluctantly  backward, 

Urged  by  importunate  zeal,  and  withheld  by  pangs  of  contrition  ; 

Slowly  but  steadily  onward,  receding  yet  ever  advancing, 

Journeyed  this  Puritan  youth  to  the  Holy  Land  of  his  longings, 

Urged  by  the  fervor  of  love,  and  withheld  by  remorseful  misgivings. 

VII. 

THE  MARCH  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 

Meanwhile  the  stalwart  Miles  Standish  was  marching  steadily  northward, 
Winding  through  forest  and  swamp,  and  along  the  trend  of  the  sea-shore, 

All  day  long,  with  hardly  a halt,  the  fire  of  his  anger 

Burning  and  crackling  within,  and  the  sulphurous  odor  of  powder 

Seeming  more  sweet  to  his  nostrils  than  all  the  scents  of  the  forest. 

Silent  and  moody  he  went,  and  much  he  revolved  his  discomfort ; 

He  who  was  used  to  success,  and  to  easy  victories  always, 

Thus  to  be  flouted,  rejected,  and  laughed  to  scorn  by  a maiden, 

Thus  to  be  mocked  and  betrayed  by  the  friend  whom  most  he  had  trusted  1 
Ah  ! t was  too  much  to  be  borne,  and  he  fretted  and  chafed  in  his  armor  ! 


320 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


“ I alone  am  to  blame,”  lie  muttered,  “ for  mine  was  the  folly. 

What  has  a rough  old  soldier,  grown  grim  and  gray  in  the  harness, 

Used  to  the  camp  and  its  ways,  to  do  with  the  wooing  of  maidens? 

T was  but  a dream,  — let  it  pass,  — let  it  vanish  like  so  many  others ! 

What  I thought  was  a flower,  is  only  a weed,  and  is  worthless  ; 

Out  of  my  heart  will  I pluck  it,  and  throw  it  away,  and  henceforward 
Be  but  a fighter  of  battles,  a lover  and  wooer  of  dangers  ! ” 

Thus  he  revolved  in  his  mind  his  sorry  defeat  and  discomfort, 

While  he  was  marching  by  day  or  lying  at  night  in  the  forest, 

Looking  up  at  the  trees,  and  the  constellations  beyond  them. 

After  a three  days’  march  he  came  to  an  Indian  encampment 
Pitched  on  the  edge  of  a meadow,  between  the  sea  and  the  forest; 

Women  at  work  by  the  tents,  and  warriors,  horrid  with  war-paint, 

Seated  about  a fire,  and  smoking  and  talking  together ; 

Who,  when  they  saw  from  afar  the  sudden  approach  of  the  white  men, 

Saw  the  flash  of  the  sun  on  breastplate  and  sabre  and  musket, 

Straightway  leaped  to  their  feet,  and  two,  from  among  them  advancing, 

Came  to  parley  with  Standish,  and  offer  him  furs  as  a present ; 

Friendship  was  in  their  look^,  but  in  their  hearts  there  was  hatred. 

Braves  of  the  tribe  were  these,  and  brothers,  gigantic  in  stature, 

Huge  as  Goliath  of  Gath,  or  the  terrible  Og,  king  of  Baslian ; 

One  was  Pecksuot  named,  and  the  other  was  called  Wattawamat. 

Round  their  necks  were  suspended  their  knives  in  scabbards  of  wampum, 
Two-edged,  trenchant  knives,  with  points  as  sharp  as  a needle. 

Other  arms  had  they  none,  for  they  were  cunning  and  crafty. 

“Welcome,  English!”  they  said,  — these  words  they  had  learned  from  the  traders 
Touching  at  times  on  the  coast,  to  barter  and  chaffer  for  peltries. 

Then  in  their  native  tongue  they  began  to  parley  with  Standish, 

Through  his  guide  and  interpreter,  Hobomok,  friend  of  the  white  man, 

Begging  for  blankets  and  knives,  but  mostly  for  muskets  and  powder, 

Kept  by  the  white  man,  they  said,  concealed,  with  the  plague,  in  his  cellars, 
Ready  to  be  let  loose,  and  destroy  his  brother  the  red  man  ! 

But  when  Standish  refused,  and  said  he  would  give  them  the  Bible, 

Suddenly  changing  their  tone,  they  began  to  boast  and  to  bluster. 

Then  Wattawamat  advanced  with  a stride  in  front  of  the  other, 

And,  with  a lofty  demeanor,  thus  vauntingly  spake  to  the  Captain  : 

“Now  Wattawamat  can  see,  by  the  fiery  eyes  of  the  Captain, 

Angry  is  he  in  his  heart ; but  the  heart  of  the  brave  Wattawamat 
Is  not  afraid  at  the  sight.  He  was  not  born  of  a woman, 

But  on  a mountain  at  night,  from  an  oak-tree  riven  by  lightning, 

Forth  he  sprang  at  a bound,  with  all  his  weapons  about  him, 

Shouting,  ‘Who  is  there  here  to  fight  with  the  brave  Wattawamat?’” 

Then  he  unsheathed  his  knife,  and,  whetting  the  blade  on  his  left  hand, 

Held  it  aloft  and  displayed  a woman’s  face  on  the  handle; 

Saying,  with  bitter  expression  and  look  of  sinister  meaning  : 

“ I have  another  at  home,  with  the  face  of  a man  on  the  handle  ; 

By  and  by  they  shall  marry ; and  there  will  be  plenty  of  children  ! ” 

Then  stood  Pecksuot  forth,  self-vaunting,  insulting  Miles  Standish : 

While  with  his  fingers  he  patted  the  knife  that  hnng  at  his  bosom. 


HENR  Y WADS  IVOR  TH  L ON  GFELL  0 IV. 


321 


Drawing  it  half  from  its  sheath,  and  plunging  it  back,  as  he  muttered, 

“ By  and  by  it  shall  see  ; it  shall  eat ; ah,  ha ! but  shall  speak  not ! 

This  is  the  mighty  Captain  the  white  men  have  sent  to  destroy  us  ! 

He  is  a little  man  ; let  him  go  and  work  with  the  women  ! ” 

Meanwhile  Standish  had  noted  the  faces  and  figures  of  Indians 
Peeping  and  creeping  about  from  bush  to  tree  in  the  forest, 

Feigning  to  look  for  game,  with  arrows  set  on  their  bow-strings, 

Drawing  about  him  still  closer  and  closer  the  net  of  their  ambush. 

But  undaunted  he  stood,  and  dissembled  and  treated  them  smoothly; 

So  the  old  chronicles  say,  that  were  writ  in  the  days  of  the  fathers. 

But  when  he  heard  their  defiance,  the  boast,  the  taunt,  and  the  insult, 

All  the  hot  blood  of  bis  race,  of  Sir  Hugh  and  of  Thurston  de  Standish, 
Boiled  and  beat  in  his  heart,  and  swelled  in  the  veins  of  his  temples. 
Headlong  he  leaped  on  the  boaster,  and,  snatching  his  knife  from  its  scabbard, 
Plunged  it  into  his  heart,  and,  reeling  backward,  the  savage 
Fell  with  his  face  to  the  sky,  and  a fiendlike  fierceness  upon  it. 

Straight  there  arose  from  the  forest  the  awful  sound  of  the  war-whoop, 

And,  like  a flurry  of  snow  on  the  whistling  wind  of  December, 

Swift  and  sudden  and  keen  came  a flight  of  feathery  arrows. 

Then  came  a cloud  of  smoke,  and  out  of  the  cloud  came  the  lightning, 

Out  of  the  lightning  thunder ; and  death  unseen  ran  before  it. 

Frightened  the  savages  fled  for  shelter  in  swamp  and  in  thicket, 

Hotly  pursued  and  beset ; but  their  sachem,  the  brave  Wattawamat, 

Fled  not ; he  was  dead.  Unswerving  and  swift  had  a bullet 
41 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Passed  through  his  brain,  and  he  fell  with  both  hands  clutching  the  greensward, 
Seeming  in  death  to  hold  hack  from  his  foe  the  land  of  his  fathers. 

There  on  the  flowers  of  the  meadow  the  warriors  lay,  and  above  them, 

Silent,  with  folded  arms,  stood  Hobomok,  friend  of  the  white  man. 

Smiling  at  length  he  exclaimed  to  the  stalwart  Captain  of  Plymouth : — 

“ Pecksuot  bragged  very  loud,  of  his  courage,  his  strength,  and  his  stature,  — 
Mocked  the  great  Captain,  and  called  him  a little  man ; but  I see  now  ■ 

Big  enough  have  you  been  to  lay  him  speechless  before  you  ! ” 

Thus  the  first  battle  was  fought  and  won  by  the  stalwart  Miles  Standish. 
When  the  tidings  thereof  were  brought  to  the  village  of  Plymouth, 

And  as  a trophy  of  war  the  head  of  the  brave  Wattawamat 

Scowled  from  the  roof  of  the  fort,  which  at  once  was  a church  and  a fortress. 

All  who  beheld  it  rejoiced,  and  praised  the  Lord,  and  took  courage. 

Only  Priscilla  averted  her  face  from  this  spectre  of  terror, 

Thanking  God  in  her  heart  that  she  had  not  married  Miles  Standish ; 

Shrinking,  fearing  almost,  lest,  coming  home  from  his  battles, 

He  should  lay  claim  to  her  hand,  as  the  prize  and  reward  of  his  valor. 


VIII. 

THE  SPINNING-WHEEL. 

Month  after  month  passed  away,  and  in  Autumn  the  ships  of  the  merchante 
Came  with  kindred  and  friends,  with  cattle  and  corn  for  the  Pilgrims. 

All  in  the  village  was  peace ; the  men  were  intent  on  their  labors, 

Busy  with  hewing  and  building,  with  garden-plot  and  with  merestead, 

Busy  with  breaking  the  glebe,  and  mowing  the  grass  in  the  meadows, 
Searching  the  sea  for  its  fish,  and  hunting  the  deer  in  the  forest. 

All  in  the  village  was  peace  ; but  at  times  the  rumor  of  warfare 
Filled  the  air  with  alarm,  and  the  apprehension  of  danger. 

Bravely  the  stalwart  Standish  was  scouring  the  land  with  his  forces, 

Waxing  valiant  in  fight  and  defeating  the  alien  armies, 

Till  his  name  had  become  a sound  of  fear  to  the  nations. 

Anger  was  still  in  his  heart,  but  at  times  the  remorse  and  contrition 

Which  in  all  noble  natures  succeed  the  passionate  outbreak, 

Came  like  a rising  tide,  that  encounters  the  rush  of  a river, 

Staying  its  current  awhile,  but  making  it  bitter  and  brackish. 

Meanwhile  Alden  at  home  had  built  him  a new  habitation, 

Solid,  substantial,  of  timber  rough-hewn  from  the  firs  of  the  forest. 
Wooden-barred  was  the  door,  and  the  roof  was  covered  with  rushes  ; 

Latticed  the  windows  were,  and  the  window-panes  were  of  paper, 

Oiled  to  admit  the  light,  while  wind  and  rain  were  excluded. 

There  too  he  dug  a well,  and  around  it  planted  an  orchard : 

Still  may  be  seen  to  this  day  some  trace  of  the  well  and  the  orchard. 

Close  to  the  house  was  the  stall,  where,  safe  and  secure  from  annoyance, 
Ragliorn,  the  snow-white  bull,  that  had  fallen  to  Alden’s  allotment 


[IE NR  Y IV A DS  IVOR  Til  L ON  G FELL  0 IV 


In  the  division  of  cattle,  might  ruminate  in  the  night-time 
Over  the  pastures  he  cropped,  made  fragrant  by  sweet  pennyroyal. 


Oft  when  Ids  labor  was  finished,  with  eager  feet  would  the  dreamer 
Follow  the  pathway  that  ran  through  the  woods  to  the  house  of  Priscilla, 


Led  by  illusions  romantic  and  subtile  deceptions  of  fancy, 

Pleasure  disguised  as  duty,  and  love  in  the  semblance  of  friendship. 

Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  fashioned  the  walls  of  his  dwelling ; 

Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  delved  in  the  soil  of  his  garden ; 

Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  read  in  his  Bible  on  Sunday 

Praise  of  the  virtuous  woman,  as  she  is  described  in  the  Proverbs,  — 

How  the  heart  of  her  husband  doth  safely  trust  in  her  always, 

How  all  the  days  of  her  life  she  will  do  him  good,  and  not  evil, 

How  she  seeketh  the  wool  and  the  flax  and  worketh  with  gladness, 

How  she  layeth  her  hand  to  the  spindle  and  holdetli  the  distaff, 

How  she  is  not  afraid  of  the  snow  for  herself  or  her  household, 

Knowing  her  household  are  clothed  with  the  scarlet  cloth  of  her  weaving  ! 

So  as  she  sat  at  her  wheel  one  afternoon  in  the  Autumn, 

Alden,  who  opposite  sat,  and  was  watching  her  dexterous  fingers, 

As  if  the  thread  she  was  spinning  were  that  of  his  life  and  his  fortune, 


324 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


After  a pause  in  their  talk,  thus  spake  to  the  sound  of  the  spindle. 

“ Truly,  Priscilla,”  he  said,  “ when  I see  you  spinning  and  spinning, 

Never  idle  a moment,  but  thrifty  and  thoughtful  of  others, 

Suddenly  you  are  transformed,  are  visibly  changed  in  a moment ; 

You  are  no  longer  Priscilla,  but  Bertha  the  Beautiful  Spinner.” 

Here  the  light  foot  on  the  treadle  grew  swifter  and  swifter  ; the  spindle 
Uttered  an  angry  snarl,  and  the  thread  snapped  short  in  her  fingers  ; 

While  the  impetuous  speaker,  not  heeding  the  mischief,  continued  : 

“ You  are  the  beautiful  Bertha,  the  spinner,  the  queen  of  Helvetia ; 

She  whose  story  I read  at  a stall  in  the  streets  of  Southampton, 

Who,  as  she  rode  on  her  palfrey,  o’er  valley  and  meadow  and  mountain, 

Ever  was  spinning  her  thread  from  a distaff  fixed  to  her  saddle. 

She  was  so  thrifty  and  good,  that  her  name  passed  into  a proverb. 

So  shall  it  be  with  your  own,  when  the  spinning-wheel  shall  no  longer 
Hum  in  the  house  of  the  farmer,  and  fill  its  chambers  with  music. 

Then  shall  the  mothers,  reproving,  relate  how  it  was  in  their  childhood, 
Praising  the  good  old  times,  and  the  days  of  Priscilla  the  spinner ! ” 

Straight  uprose  from  her  wheel  the  beautiful  Puritan  maiden, 

Pleased  with  the  praise  of  her  thrift  from  him  whose  praise  was  the  sweetest. 
Drew  from  the  reel  on  the  table  a snowy  skein  of  her  spinning, 

Thus  making  answer,  meanwhile,  to  the  flattering  phrases  of  Alden  : 

“Come,  you  must  not  be  idle;  if  I am  a pattern  for  housewives, 

Show  yourself  equally  worthy  of  being  the  model  of  husbands. 

Hold  this  skein  on  your  hands,  while  I wind  it,  ready  for  knitting ; 

Then  who  knows  but  hereafter,  when  fashions  have  changed  and  the  manners, 
Fathers  may  talk  to  their  sons  of  the  good  old  times  of  John  Alden  ! ” 

Thus,  with  a jest  and  a laugh,  the  skein  on  his  hands  she  adjusted, 

He  sitting  awkwardly  there,  with  his  arms  extended  before  him, 

She  standing  graceful,  erect,  and  winding  the  thread  from  his  fingers, 
Sometimes  chiding  a little  his  clumsy  manner  of  holding, 

Sometimes  touching  his  hands,  as  she  disentangled  expertly 

Twist  or  knot  in  the  yam,  unawares  — for  how  could  she  help  it?  — 

Sending  electrical  thrills  through  every  nerve  in  his  body. 

Lo  ! in  the  midst  of  this  scene,  a breathless  messenger  entered, 

Bringing  in  hurry  and  heat  the  terrible  news  from  the  village. 

Yes;  Miles  Standish  was  dead!  — an  Indian  had  brought  them  the  tidings,— 
Slain  by  a poisoned  arrow,  shot  down  in  the  front  of  the  battle, 

Into  an  ambush  beguiled,  cut  off  with  the  whole  of  his  forces  ; 

All  the  town  would  be  burned,  and  all  the  people  be  murdered  ! 

Such  were  the  tidings  of  evil  that  burst  on  the  hearts  of  the  hearers. 

Silent  and  statue-like  stood  Priscilla,  her  face  looking  backward 
Still  at  the  face  of  the  speaker,  her  arms  uplifted  in  horror  ; 

But  John  Alden,  upstarting,  as  if  the  barb  of  the  arrow 
Piercing  the  heart  of  his  friend  had  struck  his  own,  and  had  sundered 
Once  and  forever  the  bonds  that  held  him  bound  as  a captive 
Wild  with  excess  of  sensation,  the  awful  delight  of  his  freedom, 

Mingled  with  pain  and  regret,  unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing, 

Clasped,  almost  with  a groan,  the  motionless  form  of  Priscilla, 

Pressing  her  close  to  his  heart,  as  forever  his  own,  and  exclaiming: 

“ Those  whom  the  Lord  hath  united,  let  no  man  put  thorn  asunder  ! ” 


HENR  T IV A DS  WOR  77/  L ONGFELL  0 W. 


325 


Even  as  rivulets  twain,  from  distant  and  separate  sources, 

Seeing  eacli  other  afar,  as  they  leap  from  the  rocks,  and  pursuing 
Each  one  its  devious  path,  hut  drawing  nearer  and  nearer, 

Rush  together  at  last,  at  their  trysting-place  in  the  forest ; 

So  these  lives  that  had  run  thus  far  in  separate  channels, 

Coming  in  sight  of  each  other,  then  swerving  and  flowing  asunder, 
Parted  by  barriers  strong,  but  drawing  nearer  and  nearer, 

Rushed  together  at  last,  and  one  was  lost  in  the  other. 


IX. 

THE  WEDDING-DAY. 

Forth  from  the  curtain  of  clouds,  from  the  tent  of  purple  and  scarlet, 

Issued  the  sun,  the  great  High-Priest,  in  his  garments  resplendent, 

Holiness  unto  the  Lord,  in  letters  of  light,  on  his  forehead, 

Round  the  hem  of  his  robe  the  golden  bells  and  pomegranates. 

Blessing  the  world  he  came,  and  the  bars  of  vapor  beneath  him 
Gleamed  like  a grate  of  brass,  and  the  sea  at  his  feet  was  a laver  ! 

This  was  the  wedding  morn  of  Priscilla  the  Puritan  maiden. 

Friends  were  assembled  together  ; the  Elder  and  Magistrate  also 

Graced  the  scene  with  their  presence,  and  stood  like  the  Law  and  the  Gospel, 

One  with  the  sanction  of  earth  and  one  with  the  blessing  of  heaven. 

Simple  and  brief  was  the  wedding,  as  that  of  Ruth  and  of  Boaz. 

Softly  the  youth  and  the  maiden  repeated  the  words  of  betrothal, 

Taking  each  other  for  husband  and  wife  in  the  Magistrate’s  presence, 

After  the  Puritan  way,  and  the  laudable  custom  of  Holland. 

Fervently  then,  and  devoutly,  the  excellent  Elder  of  Plymouth 

Prayed  for  the  hearth  and  the  home,  that  were  founded  that  day  in  affection, 

Speaking  of  life  and  of  death,  and  imploring  Divine  benedictions. 


326 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Lo  ! when  the  service  was  ended,  a form  appeared  on  the  threshold, 
Clad  in  armor  of  steel,  a sombre  and  sorrowful  figure ! 

Why  does  the  bridegroom  start  and  stare  at  the  strange  apparition  ? 
Why  does  the  bride  turn  pale,  and  hide  her  face  on  his  shoulder  ? 

Is  it  a phantom  of  air,  — a bodiless,  spectral  illusion? 

Is  it  a ghost  from  the  grave,  that  has  come  to  forbid  the  betrothal  ? 
Long  had  it  stood  there  unseen,  a guest  uninvited,  unwelcomed ; 

Over  its  clouded  eyes  there  had  passed  at  times  an  expression 
Softening  the  gloom  and  revealing  the  warm  heart  hidden  beneath  them, 
As  when  across  the  sky  the  driving  rack  of  the  rain-cloud 
Grows  for  a moment  thin,  and  betrays  the  sun  by  its  brightness. 

Once  it  had  lifted  its  hand,  and  moved  its  lips,  but  was  silent, 

As  if  an  iron  will  had  mastered  the  fleeting  intention. 

But  when  were  ended  the  troth  and  the  prayer  and  the  last  benediction, 
Into  the  room  it  strode,  and  the  people  beheld  with  amazement 
Bodily  there  in  his  armor  Miles  Standish,  the  Captain  of  Plymouth  ! 
Grasping  the  bridegroom's  hand,  he  said  with  emotion,  “ Forgive  me  ! 

I have  been  angry  and  hurt, — too  long  have  I cherished  the  feeling; 

I have  been  cruel  and  hard,  but  now,  thank  God ! it  is  ended. 


I1KNR  Y WA  US  WOR  TH  L ON  GFEL  LOW. 


Mine  is  the  same  hot  blood  that  leaped  in  the  veins  of  Hugh  Standish, 

Sensitive,  swift  to  resent,  hut  as  swift  in  atoning  for  error. 

Never  so  much  as  now  was  Miles  Standish  the  friend  of  John  Alden.” 

Thereupon  answered  the  bridegroom  : “ Let  all  be  forgotten  between  us,  — 

All  save  the  dear,  old  friendship,  and  that  shall  grow  older  and  dearer!"' 

Then  the  Captain  advanced,  and,  bowing,  saluted  Priscilla, 

Gravely,  and  after  the  manner  of  old-fashioned  gentry  in  England, 

Something  of  camp  and  of  court,  of  town  and  of  country,  commingled, 

Wishing  her  joy  of  her  wedding,  and  loudly  lauding  her  husband. 

Then  he  said  with  a smile : “ I should  have  remembered  the  adage,  — 

If  you  would  be  well  served,  you  must  serve  yourself ; and  moreover, 

No  man  can  gather  cherries  in  Kent  at  the  season  of  Christmas!” 

Great  was  the  people’s  amazement,  and  greater  yet  their  rejoicing, 

Thus  to  behold  once  more  the  sunburnt  face  of  their  Captain, 

Whom  they  had  mourned  as  dead  ; and  they  gathered  and  crowded  about  him, 
Eager  to  see  him  and  hear  him,  forgetful  of  bride  and  of  bridegroom, 

Questioning,  answering,  laughing,  and  each  interrupting  the  other, 

Till  the  good  Captain  declared,  being  quite  overpowered  and  bewildered, 

He  had  rather  by  far  break  into  an  Indian  encampment, 

Than  come  again  to  a wedding  to  which  he  had  not  been  invited. 

Meanwhile  the  bridegroom  went  forth  and  stood  with  the  bride  at  the  doorway 
Breathing  the  perfumed  air  of  that  warm  and  beautiful  morning. 

Touched  with  autumnal  tints,  but  lonely  and  sad  in  the  sunshine, 

Lay  extended  before  them  the  land  of  toil  and  privation ; 

There  were  the  graves  of  the  dead,  and  the  barren  waste  of  the  sea-shore, 

There  the  familiar  fields,  the  groves  of  pine,  and  the  meadows ; 

But  to  their  eyes  transfigured,  it  seemed  as  the  Garden  of  Eden, 

Filled  with  the  presence  of  God?  whose  voice  was  the  sound  of  the  ocean. 


328 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


Soon  was  their  vision  disturbed  by  the  noise  and  stir  of  departure, 

Friends  coining  forth  from  the  house,  and  impatient  of  longer  delaying. 

Each  with  his  plan  for  the  day,  and  the  work  that  was  left  uncompleted. 
Then  from  a stall  near  at  hand,  amid  exclamations  of  wonder, 

Alden  the  thoughtful,  the  careful,  so  happy,  so  proud  of  Priscilla, 

Brought  out  his  snow-white  bull,  obeying  the  hand  of  its  master, 

Led  by  a cord  that  was  tied  to  an  iron  ring  in  its  nostrils, 

Covered  with  crimson  cloth,  and  a cushion  placed  for  a saddle. 

She  should  not  walk,  he  said,  through  the  dust  and  heat  of  the  noonday; 
Nay,  she  should  ride  like  a queen,  not  plod  along  like  a peasant. 

Somewhat  alarmed  at  first,  but  reassured  by  the  others, 

Placing  her  hand  on  the  cushion,  her  foot  in  the  hand  of  her  husband, 
Gayly,  with  joyous  laugh,  Priscilla  mounted  her  palfrey. 

“Nothing  is  wanting  now,”  he  said  with  a smile,  “but  the  distaff; 

Then  you  would  he  in  truth  my  queen,  my  beautiful  Bertha ! ” 

Onward  the  bridal  procession  now  moved  to  their  new  habitation, 

Happy  husband  and  wife,  and  friends  conversing  together. 

Pleasantly  murmured  the  brook,  as  they  crossed  the  ford  in  the  forest, 
Pleased  with  the  image  that  passed,  like  a dream  of  love  through  its  bosom, 
Tremulous,  floating  in  air,  o’er  the  depths  of  the  azure  abysses. 

Down  through  the  golden  leaves  the  sun  was  pouring  his  splendors, 
Gleaming  on  purple  grapes,  that,  from  branches  above  them  suspended, 
Mingled  their  odorous  breath  with  the  balm  of  the  pine  and  the  fir-tree, 
Wild  and  sweet  as  the  clusters  that  grew  in  the  valley  of  Escliol. 

Like  a picture  it  seemed  of  the  primitive,  pastoral  ages, 

Fresh  with  the  youth  of  the  world,  and  recalling  Rebecca  and  Isaac, 

Old  and  yet  ever  new,  and  simple  and  beautiful  always, 

Love  immortal  and  young  in  the  endless  succession  of  lovers. 

So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  passed  onward  the  bridal  procession. 


THt  HBRAttV 
OF  THE 

er§:tv  c?  Illinois 


'THE  LONGFELLOW  HOUSE"  PORTLAND,  MAINE. 


. . come  i gru  van  cantando  lor  lai, 

Facendo  in  aer  di  se  lunga  riga. 

o o 

Dante. 


PROMETHEUS, 

OR  THE  POET’S  FORETHOUGHT. 


Of  Prometheus,  how  undaunted 
On  Olympus’  shining  bastions 
His  audacious  foot  he  planted, 

Myths  are  told  and  songs  are  chanted, 
Full  of  promptings  and  suggestions. 

Beautiful  is  the  tradition 

Of  that  flight  through  heavenly  portals, 
The  old  classic  superstition 
Of  the  theft  and  the  transmission 
Of  the  fire  of  the  Immortals ! 

First  the  deed  of  noble  daring, 

Born  of  heavenward  aspiration, 

Then  the  fire  with  mortals  sharing, 

Then  the  vulture,  — the  despairing 
Cry  of  pain  on  crags  Caucasian. 

All  is  but  a symbol  painted 
Of  the  Poet,  Prophet,  Seer  ; 

Only  those  are  crowned  and  sainted 
Who  with  grief  have  been  acquainted, 
Making  nations  nobler,  freer. 

In  their  feverish  exultations, 

In  their  triumph  and  their  yearning, 

In  their  passionate  pulsations, 

In  their  words  among  the  nations, 

The  Promethean  fire  is  burning. 


Shall  it,  then,  be  unavailing, 

All  this  toil  for  human  culture? 

Through  the  cloud-rack,  dark  and  trailing 
Must  they  see  above  them  sailing 
O'er  life’s  barren  crags  the  vulture  ? 

Such  a fate  as  this  was  Dante’s, 

By  defeat  and  exile  maddened  ; 

Thus  were  Milton  and  Cervantes, 

Nature’s  priests  and  Corybantes, 

By  affliction  touched  and  saddened. 

But  the  glories  so  transcendent 

That  around  their  memories  cluster, 

And,  on  all  their  steps  attendant, 

Make  their  darkened  lives  resplendent 
With  such  gleams  of  inward  lustre  ! 

All  the  melodies  mysterious, 

Through  the  dreary  darkness  chanted  ; 
Thoughts  in  attitudes  imperious, 

Voices  soft,  and  deep,  and  serious, 

Words  that  whispered,  songs  that  haunted 

All  the  soul  in  rapt  suspension, 

All  the  quivering,  palpitating 
Chords  of  life  in  utmost  tension, 

With  the  fervor  of  invention, 

With  the  rapture  of  creating  ! 


332 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Ah,  Prometheus  ! heaven-scaling ! 

In  such  hours  of  exultation 
Even  the  faintest  heart,  unquailing. 
Might  behold  the  vulture  sailing 
Round  the  cloudy  crags  Caucasian  ! 

Though  to  all  there  be  not  given 
Strength  for  such  sublime  endeavor, 
Thus  to  scale  the  walls  of  heaven, 


And  to  leaven  with  fiery  leaven 
All  the  hearts  of  men  forever; 

Yet  all  bards,  whose  hearts  unblighted 
Honor  and  believe  the  presage, 

Hold  aloft  their  torches  lighted, 
Gleaming  through  the  realms  benighted, 
As  they  onward  bear  the  message ! 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


Black  shadows  fall 
From  the  lindens  tall. 

That  lift  aloft  their  massive  wall 
Against  the  southern  sky ; 

And  from  the  realms 
Of  the  shadowy  elms 
A tide-like  darkness  overwhelms 
The  fields  that  round  us  lie. 


But  the  night  is  fair, 

And  everywhere 

A warm,  soft  vapor  fills  the  air. 

And  distant  sounds  seem  near  ; 

And  above,  in  the  light 
Of  the  star-lit  night, 

Swift  birds  of  passage  wing  their  flight 
Through  the  dewy  atmosphere. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


I hear  the  beat 
Of  their  pinions  fleet, 

As  from  the  land  of  snow  and  sleet 
They  seek  a southern  lea. 


They  are  the  throngs 
Of  the  poet’s  songs, 

Murmurs  of  pleasures,  and  pains,  and  wrongs, 
The  sound  of  winged  words. 


1 hear  the  cry 
Of  their  voices  high 
Falling  dreamily  through  the  sky, 
But  their  forms  1 cannot  see. 

Oh,  say  not  so ! 

Those  sounds  that  flow 
In  murmurs  of  delight  and  woe 
Come  not  from  wings  of  birds. 


This  is  the  cry 

Of  souls,  that  high 

On  toiling,  beating  pinions,  fly, 

Seeking  a warmer  clime. 

From  their  distant  flight 
Through  realms  of  light 
It  falls  into  our  world  of  night, 

With  the  murmuring  sound  of  rhyme. 


THE  LADDER  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE. 


Saint  Augustine  ! well  hast  thou  said, 
That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 

A ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 

Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame  ! 

All  common  things,  each  day’s  events, 

That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end, 

Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents, 

Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design, 

That  makes  another’s  virtues  less ; 

The  revel  of  the  ruddy  wine, 

And  all  occasions  of  excess ; 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things ; 

The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth  ; 

The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 
Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth ; 

All  thoughts  of  ill  ; all  evil  deeds, 

That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill ; 

Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 

The  action  of  the  nobler  will ; — 

All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 

In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain. 


We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 
By  slow  degrees,  by  more  and  more. 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 

That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert  airs. 
When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known, 

Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 
Their  solid  bastions  to  the  skies, 

Are  crossed  by  pathways,  that  appear 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept 
Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight, 

But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 

With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast  eyes, 
We  may  discern  — unseen  before  — 

A path  to  higher  destinies, 

Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past, 

As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 

If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last 
To  something  nobler  we  attain. 


334 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


THE  PHANTOM  SHIP. 


In  Mather’s  “ Magnalia  Christi,” 

Of  the  old  colonial  time, 

May  be  found  in  prose  the  legend 
That  is  here  set  down  in  rhyme. 

A ship  sailed  from  New  Haven, 

And  the  keen  and  frosty  airs, 

That  filled  her  sails  at  parting, 

Were  heavy  with  good  men’s  prayers. 

“ O Lord  ! if  it  be  thy  pleasure  ” — 

Thus  prayed  the  old  divine  — 

“ To  bury  our  friends  in  the  ocean, 

Take  them,  for  they  are  thine ! ” 

But  Master  Lamberton  muttered, 

And  under  his  breath  said  he, 

“ This  ship  is  so  crank  and  Avalty 
I fear  our  grave  she  will  be  ! ” 

And  the  ships  that  came  from  England, 
When  the  winter  months  were  gone, 

Brought  no  tidings  of  this  vessel 
Nor  of  Master  Lamberton. 

This  put  the  people  to  praying 

That  the  Lord  would  let  them  hear 

What  in  His  greater  wisdom 

He  had  done  with  friends  so  dear. 

And  at  last  their  prayers  were  answered: 
It  was  in  the  month  of  June, 


An  hour  before  the  sunset 
Of  a windy  afternoon, 

When  steadily  steering  landward, 

A ship  was  seen  below, 

And  they  knew  it  was  Lamberton,  Master, 
Who  sailed  so  long  ago. 

On  she  came,  with  a cloud  of  canvas, 
Right  against  the  wind  that  blew, 

Until  the  eye  could  distinguish 
The  faces  of  the  crew. 

Then  fell  her  straining  topmasts, 

Hanging  tangled  in  the  shrouds, 

And  her  sails  were  loosened  and  lifted, 
And  blown  away  like  clouds. 

And  the  masts,  with  all  their  rigging, 

Fell  slowly,  one  by  one, 

And  the  hulk  dilated  and  vanished, 

As  a sea-mist  in  the  sun ! 

And  the  people  who  saw  this  marvel 
Each  said  unto  his  friend, 

That  this  was  the  mould  of  their  vessel, 
And  thus  her  tragic  end. 

And  the  pastor  of  the  village 
Gave  thanks  to  God  in  prayer, 

That,  to  quiet  their  troubled  spirits, 

He  had  sent  this  Shijj  of  Air. 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS. 


A MIST  was  driving  down  the  British  Chan- 
nel, 

The  day  was  just  begun, 

And  through  the  window-panes,  on  floor  and 
panel, 

Streamed  the  red  autumn  sun. 

It  glanced  on  flowing  flag  and  rippling  pennon, 
And  the  white  sails  of  ships ; 


And,  from  the  frowning  rampart,  the  black 
cannon 

Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 

Sandwich  and  Romney,  Hastings,  Hithe,  and 
Dover 

Were  all  alert  that  day, 

To  see  the  French  war-steamers  speeding  over, 
When  the  fog  cleared  away. 


HENR  Y JVA  DS  IVOR  TH  /,  ONGFEL L 0 IV. 


m 


Sullen  and  silent,  and  like  couchant  lions, 

Their  cannon,  through  the  night, 

Holding  their  breath,  had  watched,  in  grim 
defiance, 

The  sea-coast  opposite. 

And  now  they  roared  at  drum-beat  from  their 
stations 

On  every  citadel ; 

Each  answering  each,  with  morning  saluta- 
tions, 

That  all  was  well. 

And  down  the  coast,  all  taking  up  the  bur- 
den, 

Replied  the  distant  forts, 

As  if  to  summon  from  his  sleep  the  Warden 
And  Lord  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

Him  shall  no  sunshine  from  the  fields  of 
azure, 

No  drum-beat  from  the  wall, 

No  morning  gun  from  the  black  fort's  em- 
brasure, 

Awaken  with  its  call  ! 


No  more,  surveying  with  an  eye  impartial 
The  long  line  of  the  coast, 

Shall  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  old  Field  Marshal 
Be  seen  upon  his  post ! 

For  in  the  night,  unseen,  a single  warrior, 

In  sombre  harness  mailed, 

Dreaded  of  man,  and  surnamed  the  Destroyer, 
The  rampart  wall  had  scaled. 

He  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the  sleeper, 
The  dark  and  silent  room, 

And  as  he  entered,  darker  grew,  and  deeper, 
The  silence  and  the  gloom. 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley  or  dissemble, 

But  smote  the  Warden  hoar ; 

Ah ! what  a blow ! that  made  all  England 
tremble 

And  groan  from  shore  to  shore. 

Meanwhile,  without,  the  surly  cannon  waited, 
The  sun  rose  bright  o’erhead  ; 

Nothing  in  Nature’s  aspect  intimated 
That  a great  man  was  dead. 


336 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


HAUNTED  HOUSES. 


All  houses  wherein  men  have  lived  and  died 
Are  haunted  houses.  Through  the  open 
doors 

The  harmless  phantoms  on  their  errands  glide, 
With  feet  that  make  no  sound  upon  the 
doors. 

We  meet  them  at  the  doorway,  on  the  stair, 
Along  the  passages  they  come  and  go, 
Impalpable  impressions  on  the  air, 

A sense  of  something  moving  to  and  fro. 

There  are  more  guests  at  table,  than  the  hosts 
Invited : the  illuminated  hall 
Is  thronged  with  quiet,  inoffensive  ghosts, 

As  silent  as  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

The  stranger  at  my  fireside  cannot  see 

The  forms  I see,  nor  hear  the  sounds  I 
hear ; 

He  but  perceives  what  is ; while  unto  me 
All  that  has  been  is  visible  and  clear. 

We  have  no  title-deeds  to  house  or  lands  ; 

Owners  and  occupants  of  earlier  dates 
From  graves  forgotten  stretch  their  dusty 
hands, 

And  hold  in  mortmain  still  their  old  estates. 


The  spirit-world  around  this  world  of  sense 
Floats  like  an  atmosphere,  and  everywhere 
Wafts  through  these  earthly  mists  and  vapors 
dense 

A vital  breath  of  more  ethereal  air. 

Our  little  lives  are  kept  in  equipoise 
By  opposite  attractions  and  desires  ; 

The  struggle  of  the  instinct  that  enjoys, 

And  the  more  noble  instinct  that  aspires. 

These  perturbations,  this  perpetual  jar 
Of  earthly  wants  and  aspirations  high, 

Come  from  the  influence  of  an  unseen  star, 
An  undiscovered  planet  in  our  sky. 

And  as  the  moon  from  some  dark  gate  of  cloud 
Throws  o'er  the  sea  a floating  bridge  of 
light, 

Across  whose  trembling  planks  our  fancies  • 
crowd 

Into  the  realm  of  mystery  and  night,  — 

So  from  the  world  of  spirits  there  descends 
A bridge  of  light,  connecting  it  with  this, 
O’er  whose  unsteady  floor,  that  sways  and 
bends, 

Wander  our  thoughts  above  the  dark  abyss. 


HEN ll  Y W A DS  WORTH  L ON G FELL  0 )V. 


337 


IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  CAMBRIDGE. 


In  the  village  churchyard  she  lies, 

Dust  is  iu  her  beautiful  eyes, 

No  more  she  breathes,  nor  feels,  nor  stirs  ; 
At  her  feet  and  at  her  head 
Lies  a slave  to  attend  the  dead, 

But  their  dust  is  white  as  hers. 

Was  she  a lady  of  high  degree, 

So  much  in  love  with  the  vanity 

And  foolish  pomp  of  this  world  of  ours? 
Or  was  it  Christian  charity, 

And  lowliness  and  humility, 

The  richest  and  rarest  of  all  dowers  ? 


Who  shall  tell  us  ? No  one  speaks  ; 

No  color  shoots  into  those  cheeks, 

Either  of  anger  or  of  pride, 

At  the  rude  question  we  have  asked  ; 

Nor  will  the  mystery  be  unmasked 

By  those  who  are  sleeping  at  her  side. 

Hereafter  ? — And  do  you  think  to  look 
On  the  terrible  pages  of  that  Book 

To  find  her  failings,  faults,  and  errors  ? 
Ah,  you  will  then  have  other  cares, 

In  your  own  shortcomings  and  despairs, 

In  your  own  secret  sins  and  terrors  1 


THE  EMPEROR’S  BIRD’S-NEST. 


Once  the  Emperor  Charles  of  Spain, 
With  his  swarthy,  grave  commanders, 
I forget  in  what  campaign, 

Long  besieged,  in  mud  and  rain, 

Some  old  frontier  town  of  Flanders. 

Up  and  down  the  dreary  camp, 

In  great  boots  of  Spanish  leather, 
Striding  with  a measured  tramp, 

43 


These  Hidalgos,  dull  and  damp, 
Cursed  the  Frenchmen,  cursed  the 
weather. 

Thus  as  to  and  fro  they  went 
Over  [upland  and  through  hollow, 
Giving  their  impatience  vent, 

Perched  upon  the  Emperor’s  tent, 

In  her  nest,  they  spied  a swallow. 


338 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Yes,  it  was  a swallow’s  nest. 

Built  of  clay  and  hair  of  horses, 
Mane,  or  tail,  or  dragoon’s  crest, 

Found  on  hedge-rows  east  and  west, 
After  skirmish  of  the  forces. 

Then  an  old  Hidalgo  said, 

As  he  twirled  his  gray  mustachio, 

“ Sure  this  swallow  overhead 
Thinks  the  Emperor’s  tent  a shed, 

And  the  Emperor  but  a Macho  ! ” 

Hearing  his  imperial  name 

Coupled  with  those  words  of  malice, 
Half  in  anger,  half  in  shame, 

Forth  the  great  campaigner  came 
Slowly  from  his  canvas  palace. 

“ Let  no  hand  the  bird  molest,” 

Said  he  solemnly,  “nor  hurt  her!” 
Adding  then,  by  Avay  of  jest, 

“ Golondrina  is  my  guest, 

’T  is  the  wife  of  some  deserter!” 


THE  TWO 

Two  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of  Death, 
Passed  o’er  our  village  as  the  morning  broke; 
The  dawn  was  on  their  faces,  and  beneath, 

The  sombre  houses  hearsed  with  plumes  of 
smoke. 

Their  attitude  and  aspect  were  the  same, 

Alike  their  features  and  their  robes  of  white ; 
But  one  was  crowned  with  amaranth,  as 
with  flame, 

And  one  with  asphodels,  like  flakes  of  light. 

I saw  them  pause  on  their  celestial  way ; 

Then  said  I,  with  deep  fear  and  doubt  op- 
pressed, 

“ Beat  not  so  loud,  my  heart,  lest  thou  betray 
T1  le  place  where  thy  beloved  are  at  rest ! ” 

And  he  who  wore  the  crown  of  asphodels, 
Descending,  at  my  door  began  to  knock, 


Swift  as  bowstring  speeds  a shaft, 

Through  the  camp  was  spread  the  rumor, 
And  the  soldiers,  as  they  quaffed 
Flemish  beer  at  dinner,  laughed 
At  the  Emperor’s  pleasant  humor. 

So  unharmed  and  unafraid 

Sat  the  swallow  still  and  brooded, 

Till  the  constant  cannonade 
Through  the  walls  a breach  had  made 
And  the  siege  was  thus  concluded. 

Then  the  army,  elsewhere  bent, 

Struck  its  tents  as  if  disbanding, 

Only  not  the  Emperor’s  tent, 

For  he  ordered,  ere  he  went, 

Very  curtly,  “ Leave  it  standing  ! ” 

So  it  stood  there  all  alone, 

Loosely  flapping,  torn  and  tattered, 

Till  the  brood  was  fledged  and  flown, 
Singing  o’er  those  walls  of  stone 

Which  the  cannon-shot  had  shattered. 


ANGELS. 

And  my  soul  sank  within  me,  as  in  wells 
The  waters  sink  before  an  earthquake’s  shock. 

I recognized  the  nameless  agony, 

The  terror  and  the  tremor  and  the  pain, 
That  oft  before  had  filled  or  haunted  me, 
And  now  returned  with  threefold  strength 
again. 

The  door  I opened  to  my  heavenly  guest, 
And  listened,  for  I thought  I heard  God’s 
voice  ; 

And,  knowing  whatsoe’er  he  sent  was  best, 
Dared  neither  to  lament  nor  to  rejoice. 

Then  with  a smile,  that  filled  the  house  with 
light, 

“My  errand  is  not  Death,  but  Life,”  he  said; 
And  ere  I answered,  passing  out  of  sight, 

On  his  celestial  embassy  he  sped. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


339 


’T  was  at  tliy  door,  O friend ! and  not  at  mine, 
The  angel  with  the  amaranthine  wreath, 
Pausing,  descended,  and  with  voice  divine 
Whispered  a word  that  had  a sound  like 
Death. 

Then  fell  upon  the  house  a sudden  gloom, 

A shadow  on  those  features  fair  and  thin ; 
And  softly,  from  that  hushed  and  darkened 
room, 

Two  angels  issued,  where  but  one  went  in. 


DAYLIGHT  AND 

In  broad  daylight,  and  at  noon, 

Yesterday  I saw  the  moon 
Sailing  high,  but  faint  and  white, 

As  a school-boy’s  paper  kite. 

In  broad  daylight,  yesterday, 

I read  a Poet’s  mystic  lay ; 

And  it  seemed  to  me  at  most 
As  a phantom,  or  a ghost. 

But  at  length  the  feverish  day 
Like  a passion  died  away, 


All  is  of  God  ! If  he  but  wave  his  hand, 
The  mists  collect,  the  rain  falls  thick  and 
loud, 

Till,  with  a smile  of  light  on  sea  and  land, 
Lo ! he  looks  back  from  the  departing  cloud. 

Angels  of  Life  and  Death  alike  are  his  ; 
Without  his  leave  they  pass  no  threshold 
o’er  ; 

Who,  then,  would  wish  or  dare,  believing  this, 
Against  his  messengers  to  shut  the  door? 


MOONLIGHT. 

And  the  night,  serene  and  still, 

Fell  on  village,  vale,  and  hill. 

Then  the  moon,  in  all  her  pride, 

Like  a spirit  glorified, 

Filled  and  overflowed  the  night 
With  revelations  of  her  light. 

And  the  Poet’s  song  again 
Passed  like  music  through  my  brain  ; 
Night  interpreted  to  me 
All  its  grace  and  mystery. 


THE  JEWISH  CEMETERY  AT  NEWPORT. 


How  strange  it  seems ! These  Hebrews  in 
their  graves. 

Close  by  the  street  of  this  fair  seaport  town, 

Silent  beside  the  never-silent  waves, 

At  rest  in  all  this  moving  up  and  down  ! 

The  trees  are  white  with  dust,  that  o’er  their 
sleep 

Wave  their  broad  curtains  in  the  south- 
wind’s  breath, 

While  underneath  these  leafy  tents  they  keep 
The  long,  mysterious  Exodus  of  Death. 

And  these  sepulchral  stones,  so  old  and  brown, 
That  pave  with  level  flags  their  burial-place, 

Seem  like  the  tablets  of  the  Law,  thrown  down 
And  broken  by  Moses  at  the  mountain’s  base. 


The  very  names  recorded  here  are  strange, 
Of  foreign  accent,  and  of  different  climes; 

Alvares  and  Rivera  interchange 

With  Abraham  and  Jacob  of  old  times. 

“ Blessed  be  God  ! for  he  created  Death  ! ” 
The  mourners  said,  “ and  Death  is  rest  and 
peace  ; ” 

Then  added,  in  the  certainty  of  faith, 

“ And  giveth  Life  that  nevermore  shall 
cease.” 

Closed  are  the  portals  of  their  Synagogue, 
No  Psalms  of  David  now  the  silence 
break, 

No  Rabbi  reads  the  ancient  Decalogue 
In  the  grand  dialect  the  Prophets  spake. 


340 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Gone  are  the  living,  but  the  dead  remain, 
And  not  neglected ; for  a hand  unseen, 
Scattering  its  bounty,  like  a summer  rain, 
Still  keeps  their  graves  and  their  remem- 
brance green. 

How  came  they  here  ? What  burst  of  Chris- 
tian hate, 

What  persecution,  merciless  and  blind, 

D rove  o’er  the  sea  — that  desert  desolate  — 
These  Islimaels  and  Hagars  of  mankind  ? 

They  lived  in  narrow  streets  and  lanes  obscure, 
Ghetto  and  Judenstrass,  in  mirk  and  mire; 
Taught  in  the  school  of  patience  to  endure 
The  life  of  anguish  and  the  death  of  fire. 

All  their  lives  long,  with  the  unleavened  bread 
And  bitter  herbs  of  exile  and  its  fears, 
The  wasting  famine  of  the  heart  they  fed, 
And  slaked  its  thirst  with  marah  of  their 
tears. 

Anathema  maranatha ! was  the  cry 

That  rang  from  town  to  town,  from  street 
to  street ; 


At  every  gate  the  accursed  Mordecai 

Was  mocked  and  jeered,  and  spurned  by 
Christian  feet. 

Pride  and  humiliation  hand  in  hand 

Walked  with  them  through  the  world 
where’er  they  went ; 

Trampled  and  beaten  were  they  as  the  sand, 
And  yet  unshaken  as  the  continent. 

For  in  the  background  figures  vague  and  vast 
Of  patriarchs  and  of  prophets  rose  sub- 
lime, 

And  all  the  great  traditions  of  the  Past 
They  saw  reflected  in  the  coming  time. 

And  thus  forever  with  reverted  look 

The  mystic  volume  of  the  world  they  read, 
Spelling  it  backward,  like  a Hebrew  book, 
Till  life  became  a Legend  of  the  Dead. 

But  ah ! what  once  has  been  shall  be  no 
more ! 

The  groaning  earth  in  travail  and  in  pain 
Brings  forth  its  races,  but  does  not  restore, 
And  the  dead  nations  never  rise  again. 


HENR  Y WADS  WOR  TH  L ON  GFELL  0 W. 


341 


OLIVER  BASSELIN. 


In  the  Valley  of  the  Vire 
Still  is  seen  an  ancient  mill, 

With  its  gables  quaint  and  queer, 

And  beneath  the  window  sill. 

On  the  stone, 

These  words  alone : 

“ Oliver  Basselin  lived  here.” 

Far  above  it,  on  the  steep, 

Ruined  stands  the  old  Chateau  ; 
Nothing  but  the  donjon-keep 
Left  for  shelter  or  for  show. 

Its  vacant  eyes 
Stare  at  the  skies, 

Stare  at  the  valley  green  and  deep. 

Once  a convent,  old  and  brown, 

' Looked,  but  ah ! it  looks  no  more, 
From  the  neighboring  hillside  down 
On  the  rushing  and  the  roar 
Of  the  stream 
Whose  sunny  gleam 
Cheers  the  little  Norman  town. 

In  that  darksome  mill  of  stone, 

To  the  water’s  dash  and  din, 

Careless,  humble,  and  unknown, 

Sang  the  poet  Basselin 
Songs  that  fill 
That  ancient  mill 
With  a splendor  of  its  own. 

Never  feeling  of  unrest 

Broke  the  pleasant  dream  he  dreamed  ; 
Only  made  to  be  his  nest, 

All  the  lovely  valley  seemed ; 

No  desire 
Of  soaring  higher 
Stirred  or  fluttered  in  his  breast. 

True,  his  songs  were  not  divine ; 

Were  not  songs  of  that  high  art, 
Which,  as  winds  do  in  the  pine, 

Find  an  answer  in  each  heart; 


But  the  mirth 
Of  this  green  earth 
Laughed  and  revelled  in  his  line. 

From  the  alehouse  and  the  inn, 

Opening  on  the  narrow  street, 

Came  the  loud,  convivial  din, 

Singing  and  applause  of  feet, 

The  laughing  lays 
That  in  those  days 
Sang  the  poet  Basselin. 

In  the  castle,  cased  in  steel, 

Knights,  who  fought  at  Agincourt, 

W atched  and  waited,  spur  on  heel ; 

But  the  poet  sang  for  sport 
Songs  that  rang 
Another  clang, 

Songs  that  lowlier  hearts  could  feel. 

In  the  convent,  clad  in  gray, 

Sat  the  monks  in  lonely  cells, 

Paced  the  cloisters,  knelt  to  pray, 

And  the  poet  heard  their  bells ; 

But  his  rhymes 
Found  other  chimes, 

Nearer  to  the  earth  than  they. 

Gone  are  all  the  barons  bold, 

Gone  are  all  the  knights  and  squires, 
Gone  the  abbot  stern  and  cold, 

And  the  brotherhood  of  friars ; 

Not  a name 
Remains  to  fame, 

From  those  mouldering  days  of  old  ! 

But  the  poet’s  memory  here 

Of  the  landscape  makes  a part  ; 

Like  the  river,  swift  and  clear, 

Flows  his  song  through  many  a heart ; 
Haunting  still 
That  ancient  mill 
In  the  Valley  of  the  Vire. 


342 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


VICTOR  GALBRAITH. 


Under  the  walls  of  Monterey 
At  daybreak  the  bugles  began  to  play, 
Victor  Galbraith ! 

In  the  mist  of  the  morning  damp  and  gray, 
These  were  the  words  they  seemed  to  say : 
“ Come  fortli  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith ! ” 

Forth  he  came,  with  a martial  tread; 

Firm  was  his  step,  erect  his  head ; 

Victor  Galbraith, 

He  who  so  well  the  bugle  played, 

Could  not  mistake  the  words  it  said  : 

“ Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith ! ” 

He  looked  at  the  earth,  he  looked  at  the 
sky, 

He  looked  at  the  files  of  musketry, 

Victor  Galbraith ! 

And  he  said,  with  a steady  voice  and  eye, 
“ Take  good  aim ; I am  ready  to  die  ! ” 

Thus  challenges  death 
Victor  Galbraith. 

Twelve  fiery  tongues  flashed  straight  and 
red, 

Six  leaden  balls  on  their  errand  sped ; 
Victor  Galbraith 

Falls  to  the  ground,  but  he  is  not  dead  ; 


His  name  was  not  stamped  on  those  balls 
of  lead, 

And  they  only  scatli 
Victor  Galbraith. 

Three  balls  are  in  his  breast  and  brain, 
But  he  rises  out  of  the  dust  again, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 

The  water  he  drinks  has  a bloody  stain  ; 

“ Oh  kill  me,  and  put  me  out  of  my  pain ! ” 
In  his  agony  prayeth 
Victor  Galbraith. 

Forth  dart  once  more  those  tongues  of 
flame, 

And  the  bugler  has  died  a death  of  shame, 
Victor  Galbraith  ! 

His  soul  has  gone  back  to  whence  it  came, 
And  no  one  answers  to  the  name, 

When  the  Sergeant  saith, 

“ Victor  Galbraith  ! ” 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey 
By  night  a bugle  is  heard  to  play, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 

Through  the  mist  of  the  valley  damp  and 
gray 

The  sentinels  hear  the  sound,  and  say, 

“ That  is  the  wraith 
Of  Victor  Galbraith  ! ” 


MY  LOST  YOUTH. 


Often  I think  of  the  beautiful  town 
That  is  seated  by  the  sea ; 

Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 

And  a verse  of  a Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still  : 

“ A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 


I can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 

The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 

And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 

It  murmurs  and  whispers  still : 

“A  boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 


HENR  Y WA DS  WOR  Til  L ON  GFELL  0 II'. 


T remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 
And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free  ; 

And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 

And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still : 

“A  boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 

thoughts.” 

I remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill  ; 

The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar, 

The  drum-beat  repeated  o’er  and  o’er, 

And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 

And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still : 

“ A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 

O J 0 1 o 

thoughts.” 


9 1 o 

010 

I remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 

How  it  thundered  o’er  the  tide  ! 

And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
Tn  their  graves,  o’erlooking  the  tranquil  bay, 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a thrill : 

“A  boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 

I can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 

The  shadows  of  Deering’s  Woods; 

And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a Sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighborhoods. 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 

It  flutters  and  murmurs  still  : 

“ A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 


344 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


I remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 
Across  the  school-boy’s  brain  ; 

The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 

That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still : 

“ A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 

There  are  things  of  which  I may  not  speak  ; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die  ; 

There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong 
heart  weak, 

And  bring  a pallor  into  the  cheek, 

And  a mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a chill  : 

“ A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 


Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I meet 
When  I visit  the  dear  old  town  ; 

But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 

And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well- 
known  street, 

As  they  balance  up  and  down, 

Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 

Are  sighing  and  whispering  still : 

“ A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 

And  Deering’s  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 

And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were, 
I find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 

The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 

“ A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 


THE  ROPEWALK. 


Ix  that  building,  long  and  low, 

With  its  windows  all  a-row, 

Like  the  port-holes  of  a hulk, 
Human  spiders  spin  and  spin, 
Backward  down  their  threads  so  thin 
Dropping,  each  a hempen  bulk. 

At  the  end,  an  open  door ; 

Squares  of  sunshine  on  the  floor 
Light  the  long  and  dusky  lane  ; 

And  the  whirring  of  a wheel, 

Dull  and  drowsy,  makes  me  feel 
All  its  spokes  are  in  my  brain. 

As  the  spinners  to  the  end 
Downward  go  and  reascend, 

Gleam  the  long  threads  in  the  sun  ; 
While  within  this  brain  of  mine 
Cobwebs  brighter  and  more  fine 
By  the  busy  wheel  are  spun. 

Two  fair  maidens  in  a swing, 

Like  white  doves  upon  the  wing, 

First  before  my  vision  pass  ; 


Laughing,  as  their  gentle  hands 
Closely  clasp  the  twisted  strands, 

At  their  shadow  on  the  grass. 

Then  a booth  of  mountebanks, 

With  its  smell  of  tan  and  planks, 

And  a girl  poised  high  in  air 
On  a cord,  in  spangled  dress, 

With  a faded  loveliness, 

And  a weary  look  of  care. 

Then  a homestead  among  farms, 

And  a woman  with  bare  arms 
Drawing  water  from  a well ; 

As  the  bucket  mounts  apace, 

With  it  mounts  her  own  fair  face, 

As  at  some  magician’s  spell. 

Then  an  old  man  in  a tower, 

Ringing  loud  the  noontide  hour, 

While  the  rope  coils  round  and  round 
Like  a serpent  at  his  feet, 

And  again,  in  swift  retreat, 

Nearly  lifts  him  from  the  ground. 


ARTIST  : MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE. 


"And  a woman  with  bare  arms 
Drawing  water  from  a well." 

The  Ropeivalk. 


tgt  inMtf 
Of  WE  ^ 

df  t’JllOClS 


HENR  Y IV A DS  IVOR  77/  /,  ONGFKL  L O IV. 


Then  within  a prison-yard, 

Faces  fixed,  and  stern,  and  hard, 
Laughter  and  indecent  mirth  ; 

Ah  ! it  is  the  gallows-tree  ! 

Breath  of  Christian  charity, 

Blow,  and  sweep  it  from  the  earth  ! 

Then  a school-boy,  with  his  kite 
Gleaming  in  a sky  of  light, 

And  an  eager,  upward  look  ; 

Steeds  pursued  through  lane  and  field ; 
Fowlers  with  their  snares  concealed ; 
And  an  angler  by  a brook. 


Ships  rejoicing  in  the  breeze, 

Wrecks  that  float  o’er  unknown  seas, 
Anchors  dragged  through  faithless  sand ; 
Sea-fog  drifting  overhead, 

And,  with  lessening  line  and  lead, 

Sailors  feeling  for  the  land. 

All  these  scenes  do  I behold, 

These,  and  many  left  untold, 

In  that  building  long  and  low  ; 

While  the  wheel  goes  round  and  round, 
With  a drowsy,  dreamy  sound, 

And  the  spinners  backward  go. 


THE  GOLDEN 


MILE-STONE. 


Leafless  are  the  trees  ; their  purple  branches 
Spread  themselves  abroad,  like  reefs  of  coral, 
Rising  silent 

In  the  Red  Sea  of  the  winter  sunset. 


On  the  hearth  the  lighted  logs  are  glowing, 
And  like  Ariel  in  the  cloven  pine-tree 
For  its  freedom 

Groans  and  sighs  the  air  imprisoned  in  them 


From  the  hundred  chimneys  of  the  village, 
Like  the  Afreet  in  the  Arabian  story, 
Smoky  columns 

Tower  aloft  into  the  air  of  amber. 


At  the  window  winks  the  flickering  fire-light; 
Here  and  there  the  lamps  of  evening  glimmer, 
Social  watch-fires 

Answering  one  another  through  the  darkness. 


346 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


By  the  fireside  there  are  old  men  seated, 
Seeing  ruined  cities  in  the  ashes, 

Asking  sadly 

Of  the  Past  what  it  can  ne’er  restore  them. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  youthful  dreamers, 
Building  castles  fair,  with  stately  stairways, 
Asking  blindly 

Of  the  Future  what  it  cannot  give  them. 

By  the  fireside  tragedies  are  acted 
In  whose  scenes  appear  two  actors  only, 

Wife  and  husband, 

And  above  them  God  the  sole  spectator. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  peace  and  com- 
fort, 

Wives  and  children,  with  fair,  thoughtful 
faces, 

Waiting,  watching 

For  a well-known  footstep  in  the  passage. 


Each  man’s  chimney  is  his  Golden  Milestone  ; 
Is  the  central  point,  from  which  he  measures 
Every  distance 

Through  the  gateways  of  the  world  around  him. 

In  his  farthest  wanderings  still  he  sees  it; 
Hears  the  talking  flame,  the  answering  night- 
wind, 

As  he  heard  them 

When  he  sat  with  those  who  were,  but  are  not. 

Happy  he  whom  neither  wealth  nor  fashion, 
Nor  the  march  of  the  encroaching  city, 
Drives  an  exile 

From  the  hearth  of  his  ancestral  homestead. 

We  may  build  more  splendid  habitations, 

Fill  our  rooms  with  paintings  and  with  sculp- 
tures, 

But  we  cannot 

Buy  with  gold  the  old  associations ! 


CATAWBA  WINE. 


This  song  of  mine 
Is  a Song  of  the  Vine, 

To  be  sung  by  the  glowing  embers 
Of  wayside  inns, 

When  the  rain  begins 
To  darken  the  drear  Novembers. 

It  is  not  a song 
Of  the  Scuppernong, 

From  warm  Carolinian  valleys, 

Nor  the  Isabel 
And  the  Muscadel 
That  bask  in  our  garden  alleys. 

Nor  the  red  Mustang, 

Whose  clusters  hang 
O’er  the  waves  of  the  Colorado, 

And  the  fiery  flood 
Of  whose  purple  blood 
Has  a dash  of  Spanish  bravado. 

For  richest  and  best 
Is  the  wine  of  the  West, 

That  grows  by  the  Beautiful  River ; 


Whose  sweet  perfume 
Fills  all  the  room 
With  a benison  on  the  giver. 

And  as  hollow  trees 
Are  the  haunts  of  bees, 

Forever  going  and  coming ; 

So  this  crystal  hive 
Is  all  alive 

With  a swarming  and  buzzing  and  humming. 

Very  good  in  its  way 
Is  the  Verzenay, 

Or  the  Sillei'y  soft  and  creamy  ; 

But  Catawba  wine 
Has  a taste  more  divine, 

More  dulcet,  delicious,  and  dreamy. 

There  grows  no  vine 
By  the  haunted  Rhine, 

By  Danube  or  Guadalquivir, 

Nor  on  island  or  cape, 

That  bears  such  a grape 
As  grows  by  the  Beautiful  River. 


1IENR  Y WADS  WO  II 77/  L ON  OF  DLL  0 \\ 


34 


Drugged  is  their  juice 
For  foreign  use, 

When  shipped  o'er  the  reeling  Atlantic, 
To  rack  our  brains 
With  the  fever  pains, 

That  have  driven  the  Old  World  frantic. 

To  the  sewers  and  sinks 
With  all  such  drinks, 

And  after  them  tumble  the  mixer ; 

For  a poison  malign 
Is  such  Borgia  wine, 

Or  at  best  but  a Devil's  Elixir. 


While  pure  as  a spring 
Is  the  wine  I sing, 

And  to  praise  it,  one  needs  but  name  it 
For  Catawba  wine 
lias  need  of  no  sign, 

No  tavern-bush  to  proclaim  it. 

And  this  Song  of  the  Vine, 

This  greeting  of  mine, 

The  winds  and  the  birds  shall  deliver 
To  the  Queen  of  the  West, 

In  her  garlands  dressed, 

On  the  banks  of  the  Beautiful  River. 


SANTA  FILOMENA. 


Whene'er  a noble  deed  is  wrought, 
Whene’er  is  spoken  a noble  thought, 
Our  hearts,  in  glad  surprise, 

To  higher  levels  rise. 


The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  souls 
Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 
And  lifts  us  unawares 
Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 


348 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Honor  to  those  whose  words  or  deeds 
Thus  Help  us  in  our  daily  needs, 

And  by  their  overflow 
Raise  us  from  what  is  low ! 

Thus  thought  I,  as  by  night  I read 
Of  the  great  army  of  the  dead, 

The  trenches  cold  and  damp, 

The  starved  and  frozen  camp,  — 

The  wounded  from  the  battle-plain, 

In  dreary  hospitals  of  pain, 

The  cheerless  corridors, 

The  cold  and  stony  floors. 

Lo ! in  that  house  of  misery 
A lady  with  a lamp  I see 

Pass  through  the  glimmering  gloom. 
And  flit  from  room  to  room. 

And  slow,  as  in  a dream  of  bliss, 

The  speechless  sufferer  turns  to  kiss 


Her  shadow,  as  it  falls 
Upon  the  darkening  walls. 

As  if  a door  in  heaven  should  be 
Opened  and  then  closed  suddenly, 

The  vision  came  and  went, 

The  light  shone  and  was  spent. 

On  England’s  annals,  through  the  long 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song, 

That  light  its  rays  shall  cast 
From  portals  of  the  past. 

A Lady  with  a Lamp  shall  stand 
In  the  great  history  of  the  land, 

A noble  type  of  good, 

Heroic  womanhood. 

Nor  even  shall  be  wanting  here 
The  palm,  the  lily,  and  the  spear, 

The  symbols  that  of  yore 
Saint  Filomena  bore. 


THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORTH  CAPE. 

A LEAF  FROM  KING  ALFRED’S  OROSIUS. 


Othere,  the  old  sea-captain. 

Who  dwelt  in  Helgoland, 

To  King  Alfred,  the  Lover  of  Truth, 
Brought  a snow-white  walrus-tooth, 

Which  he  held  in  his  brown  right  hand. 

His  figure  was  tall  and  stately. 

Like  a boy’s  his  eye  appeared ; 

His  hair  was  yellow  as  hay, 

But  threads  of  a silvery  gray 
Gleamed  in  his  tawny  beard. 

Hearty  and  hale  was  Othere, 

His  cheek  had  the  color  of  oak  ; 

With  a kind  of  laugh  in  his  speech, 

Like  the  sea-tide  on  a beach, 

As  unto  the  King  he  spoke. 

And  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 

Had  a book  upon  his  knees, 

And  wrote  down  the  wondrous  tale 
Of  him  who  was  first  to  sail 
Into  the  Arctic  seas. 


“ So  far  I live  to  the  northward, 

No  man  lives  north  of  me  ; 

To  the  east  are  wild  mountain-chains, 
And  beyond  them  meres  and  plains  ; 
To  the  westward  all  is  sea. 

“ So  far  I live  to  the  northward, 

From  the  harbor  of  Skeringes-hale, 
If  you  only  sailed  by  day, 

With  a fair  wind  all  the  way, 

More  than  a month  would  you  sail. 

“ I own  six  hundred  reindeer, 

With  sheep  and  swine  beside  ; 

I have  tribute  from  the  Finns, 
Whalebone  and  reindeer-skins, 

And  ropes  of  walrus-hide. 

“ I ploughed  the  land  with  horses, 

But  my  heart  was  ill  at  ease, 

For  the  old  seafaring  men 
Came  to  me  now  and  then, 

With  their  sagas  of  the  seas ; — 


HEN  It  Y WA  DS  IVOR  TH  L ONGFELL  0 H 


>49 


“Of  Iceland  and  of  Greenland, 

And  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

And  the  undiscovered  deep;  — 

Oli  I could  not,  eat  nor  sleep 
For  thinking  of  those  seas. 

“ To  the  northward  stretched  the  desert, 
How  far  I fain  would  know  ; 

So  at  last  I sallied  forth, 

And  three  days  sailed  due  north, 

As  far  as  the  whale-ships'  go. 


“ To  the  west  of  me  was  the  ocean, 
To  the  right  the  desolate  shore, 
But  1 did  not  slacken  sail 
For  the  walrus  or  the  whale, 

Till  after  three  days  more. 

“ The  days  grew  longer  and  longer, 
Till  they  became  as  one, 

And  northward  through  the  haze 
I saw  the  sullen  blaze 
Of  the  red  midnight  sun. 


“ The  sea  was  rough  and  stormy, 
The  tempest  howled  and  wailed. 
And  the  sea-fog,  like  a ghost. 
Haunted  that  dreary  coast, 

But  onward  still  I sailed. 

“ Four  days  I steered  to  eastward, 
Four  days  without  a night: 
Round  in  a fiery  ring 
Went  the  great  sun,  O King, 
With  red  and  lurid  light.” 


Here  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 
Ceased  writing  for  a while  : 

And  raised  his  eyes  from  his  book. 
With  a strange  and  puzzled  look, 
And  an  incredulous  smile. 

But  Othere,  the  old  sea-captain. 

He  neither  paused  nor  stirred, 
Till  the  King  listened,  and  then 
Once  more  took  up  his  pen, 

And  wrote  down  every  word. 


350 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


“ And  now  the  land,’  said  Othere, 

“ Bent  southward  suddenly, 

And  I followed  the  curving  shore 
And  ever  southward  bore 
Into  a nameless  sea. 

“ And  there  we  hunted  the  walrus, 
The  narwhale,  and  the  seal ; 

Ha!  ’t  was  a noble  game! 

And  like  the  lightning’s  flame 
Flew  our  harpoons  of  steel. 

“ There  were  six  of  us  all  together, 
Norsemen  of  Helgoland ; 

In  two  days  and  no  more 
We  killed  of  them  threescore, 

And  dragged  them  to  the  strand  ! 


Here  Alfred  the  Truth-teller 
Suddenly  closed  his  book, 

And  lifted  his  blue  eyes, 

With  doubt  and  strange  surmise 
Depicted  in  their  look. 

And  Othere  the  old  sea-captain 
Stared  at  him  wild  and  weird, 

Then  smiled,  till  his  shining  teeth 
Gleamed  white  from  underneath 
His  tawny,  quivering  beard. 

And  to  the  King  of  the  Saxons, 

In  witness  of  the  truth, 

Raising  his  noble  head, 

He  stretched  his  brown  hand,  and  said, 
“ Behold  this  walrus-tooth  ! ” 


DAYBREAK. 


A wind  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And  said,  “ O mists,  make  room  for  me. 


And  hurried  landward  far  away, 
Crying,  “ Awake  ! it  is  the  day. 


It  hailed  the  ships,  and  cried,  “ Sail  on, 
Ye  mariners,  the  night  is  gone.' 


It  said  unto  the  forest,  “ Shout ! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out ! 


IIKNR  Y IV A DS  IVOR  TH  L ON G FELL  O IV. 


■)  ■)  \ 


It  touched  the  wood-bird’s  folded  wing. 
And  said,  “ 0 bird,  awake  and  sing.’ 

And  o’er  the  farms,  “O  chanticleer. 
Your  clarion  blow ; the  day  is  near. 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 

Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coining  morn.” 

It  shouted  through  the  belfry-tower, 
Awake,  O bell  ! proclaim  the  hour.” 

It  crossed  the  churchyard  with  a sigh, 
And  said,  “ Not  yet ! in  quiet  lie.” 


THE  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  AGASSIZ. 

MAY  28,  1857. 


It  was  fifty  years  ago 

In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 

In  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud, 

A child  in  its  cradle  lay. 

And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 
The  child  upon  her  knee, 

Saying : “ Here  is  a story-book 

Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee.” 

“ Come,  wander  with  me,”  she  said, 
“Into  regions  yet  untrod; 

And  read  what  is  still  unread 
In  the  manuscripts  of  God.” 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse, 
Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe. 


And  whenever  the  way  seemed  long, 

Or  his  heart  began  to  fail. 

She  would  sing  a more  wonderful  song, 
Or  tell  a more  marvellous  tale. 

So  she  keeps  him  still  a child, 

And  will  not  let  him  go, 

Though  at  times  his  heart  beats  wild 
For  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud; 

Though  at  times  he  hears  in  his  dreams 
The  Ranz  des  Vaclies  of  old, 

And  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 
From  glaciers  clear  and  cold; 

And  the  mother  at  home  says,  “Hark! 
For  his  voice  I listen  and  yearn  ; 

It  is  growing  late  and  dark, 

And  my  boy  does  not  return  ! ” 


CHILDREN. 


Come  to  me,  O ye  children ! 

For  I hear  you  at  your  play, 

And  the  questions  that  perplexed  me 
Have  vanished  quite  away. 

Ye  open  the  eastern  windows, 

That  look  towards  the  sun, 


Where  thoughts  are  singing  swallows 
And  the  brooks  of  morning  run. 

In  your  hearts  are  the  birds  and  the  sunshine. 
In  your  thoughts  the  brooklet’s  flow, 

But  in  mine  is  the  wind  of  Autumn 
And  the  first  fall  of  the  snow. 


352 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Ah ! what  would  the  world  be  to  us 
If  the  children  were  no  more  ? 

We  should  dread  the  desert  behind  us 
Worse  than  the  dark  before. 

What  the  leaves  are  to  the  forest, 
With  light  and  air  for  food, 

Ere  their  sweet  and  tender  juices 
Have  been  hardened  into  wood, — 

That  to  the  world  are  children  ; 

Through  them  it  feels  the  glow 
Of  a brighter  and  sunnier  climate 
Than  reaches  the  trunks  below. 


Come  to  me,  O ye  children  ! 

And  whisper  in  my  ear 
What  the  birds  and  the  winds  are  singing 
In  your  sunny  atmosphere. 

For  what  are  all  our  contrivings, 

And  the  wisdom  of  our  books, 

When  compared  with  your  caresses, 

And  the  gladness  of  your  looks  ? 

Ye  are  better  than  all  the  ballads 
That  ever  were  sung  or  said ; 

For  ye  are  living  poems, 

And  all  the  rest  are  dead. 


SANDALPHON. 


Have  you  read  in  the  Talmud  of  old, 

In  the  Legends  the  Rabbins  have  told 
Of  the  limitless  realms  of  the  air, 

Have  you  read  it,  — the  marvellous  story 
Of  Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Glory, 
Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Prayer  ? 

How,  erect,  at  the  outermost  gates 
Of  the  City  Celestial  he  waits, 

With  his  feet  on  the  ladder  of  light, 
That,  crowded  with  angels  unnumbered, 
By  Jacob  was  seen,  as  lie  slumbered 
Alone  in  the  desert  at  night  ? 

The  Angels  of  Wind  and  of  Fire 
Chant  only  one  hymn,  and  expire 
With  the  song’s  irresistible  stress  ; 
Expire  in  their  rapture  and  wonder, 

As  harp-strings  are  broken  asunder 
By  music  they  throb  to  express. 

But  serene  in  the  rapturous  throng, 
Unmoved  by  the  rush  of  the  song, 

With  eyes  unimpassioned  and  slow. 
Among  the  dead  angels,  the  deathless 
Sandalphon  stands  listening  breathless 
To  sounds  that  ascend  from  below ; — 

From  the  spirits  on  earth  that  adore, 
From  the  souls  that  entreat  and  implore 
In  the  fervor  and  passion  of  prayer  ; 


From  the  hearts  that  are  broken  with  losses, 
And  weary  with  dragging  the  crosses 
Too  heavy  for  mortals  to  bear. 

And  he  gathers  the  prayers  as  he  stands, 
And  they  change  into  flowers  in  his  hands, 
Into  garlands  of  purple  and  red  ; 

And  beneath  the  great  arch  of  the  portal, 
Through  the  streets  of  the  City  Immortal 
Is  wafted  the  fragrance  they  shed. 

It  is  but  a,  legend,  I know,  — 

A fable,  a phantom,  a show, 

Of  the  ancient  Rabbinical  lore  ; 

Yet  the  old  mediaeval  tradition, 

The  beautiful,  strange  superstition, 

But  haunts  me  and  holds  me  the  more. 

When  I look  from  my  window  at  night, 

And  the  welkin  above  is  all  white, 

All  throbbing  and  panting  with  stars, 
Among  them  majestic  is  standing 
Sandalphon  the  angel,  expanding 
His  pinions  in  nebulous  bars. 

And  the  legend,  I feel,  is  a part 
Of  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  heart, 

The  frenzy  and  fire  of  the  brain, 

That  grasps  at  the  fruitage  forbidden. 

The  golden  pomegranates  of  Eden, 

To  quiet  its  fever  and  pain. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


THE  CHILDREN’S  HOUR. 


Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 
Comes  a pause  in  the  day’s  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children’s  Hour. 


I hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 
The  patter  of  little  feet, 

The  sound  of  a door  that  is  opened, 
And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 


45 


354 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


From  my  study  I see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 

And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A whisper,  and  then  a silence: 

Yet  I know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 

A sudden  raid  from  the  hall ! 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle  wall  ! 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O’er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair ; 

If  I try  to  escape,  they  surround  me  ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 


They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine  ! 

Do  you  think,  O blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 
Such  an  old  mustache  as  I am 
Is  not  a match  for  you  all ! 

I have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 

But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 
In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I keep  you  forever, 
Yes,  forever  and  a day, 

Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 
And  moulder  in  dust  away  ! 


ENCELADUS. 


HENR  Y WA  DS  WOR  77/  L ONGFEL  7 0 W. 


355 


The  crags  are  piled  on  his  breast, 

The  earth  is  heaped  on  his  head  ; 

But  the  groans  of  his  wild  unrest, 

Though  smothered  and  half  suppressed, 

Are  heard,  and  lie  is  not  dead. 

And  the  nations  far  away 

Are  watching  with  eager  eyes  ; 

They  talk  together  and  say, 

“ To-morrow,  perhaps  to-day, 

Enceladus  will  arise  ! ” 

And  the  old  gods,  the  austere 
Oppressors  in  their  strength. 

Stand  aghast  and  white  with  fear 
At  the  ominous  sounds  they  hear, 

And  tremble,  and  mutter,  “At  length!” 


Ah  me!  for  the  land  that  is  sown 
With  the  harvest  of  despair  ! 

Where  the  burning  cinders,  blown 
From  the  lips  of  the  overthrown 
Enceladus.  till  the  air. 

Where  ashes  are  heaped  in  drifts 
Over  vineyard  and  field  and  town, 
Whenever  he  starts  and  lifts 
His  head  through  the  blackened  rifts 
Of  the  crags  that  keep  him  down. 

See,  see  ! the  red  light  shines  ! 

’T  is  the  glare  of  his  awful  eyes  ! 

And  the  storm-wind  shouts  through  the  pines 
Of  Alps  and  of  Apennines, 

“ Enceladus,  arise  ! 


THE  CUMBERLAND. 


At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 

On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of-war : 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  baj 
The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 

Or  a bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 


Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 
A little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 

And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 


356 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort ; 

Then  comes  a pnff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 

With  fiery  breath, 

From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 
Defiance  back  in  a full  broadside ! 

As  hail  rebounds  from  a roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster’s  hide. 

“Strike  your  flag!”  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 

“Never!"  our  gallant  Morris  replies; 

“ It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield  ! ” 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 


Then,  like  a kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a wrack, 
With  a sudden  shudder  of  death, 

And  the  cannon’s  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 
Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day ! 

Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a whisper  of  prayer, 

Or  a dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho  ! brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas  ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream  ; 
Ho!  braye  land!  with  hearts  like  these, 

Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain. 

Shall  "be  one  again, 

And  without  a seam  ! 


■ 


SNOW-FLAKES. 


Out  of  the  bosom  of  the  Air, 

Out  of  the  cloud-folds  of  her  garments  shaken, 
Over  the  woodlands  brown  and  bare, 

Over  the  harvest-fields  forsaken, 

Silent,  and  soft,  and  slow 
Descends  the  sncw. 

Even  as  our  cloudy  fancies  take 
Suddenly  shape  in  some  divine  expression, 
Even  as  the  troubled  heart  doth  make 


In  the  white  countenance  confession, 
The  troubled  sky  reveals 
The  grief  it  feels. 

This  is  the  poem  of  the  air, 

Slowly  in  silent  syllables  recorded  ; 
This  is  the  secret  of  despair, 

Long  in  its  cloudy  bosom  hoarded, 
Now  whispered  and  revealed 
To  wood  and  field. 


HENIi  Y JVA  DS  IVOR  TH  L ON G FELL  0 W. 


357 


A DAY  OF  SUNSHINE. 


0 gift  of  God ! O perfect  day : 
Whereon  shall  no  man  work,  but  play  ; 
Whereon  it  is  enough  for  me, 

Not  to  be  doing,  but  to  be! 

Through  every  fibre  of  my  brain, 
Through  every  nerve,  through  every  vein, 

1 feel  the  electric  thrill,  the  touch 
Of  life,  that  seems  almost  too  much. 

I hear  the  wind  among  the  trees 
Playing  celestial  symphonies ; 

I see  the  branches  downward  bent, 

Like  keys  of  some  great  instrument. 

And  over  me  unrolls  on  high 
The  splendid  scenery  of  the  sky, 


Where  through  a sapphire  sea  the  sun 
Sails  like  a golden  galleon, 

Towards  yonder  cloud-land  in  the  West, 
Towards  yonder  Islands  of  the  Blest, 

Whose  steep  sierra  far  uplifts 

Its  craggy  summits  white  with  drifts. 

Blow,  winds  ! and  waft  through  all  the  rooms 
The  snows  flakes  of  the  cherry -blooms ! 

Blow,  winds ! and  bend  within  my  reach 
The  fiery  blossoms  of  the  peach  ! 

O Life  and  Love  ! O happy  throng 
Of  thoughts,  whose  only  speech  is  song  ! 

O heart  of  man  ! canst  thou  not  be 
Blithe  as  the  air  is,  and  as  free  ? 


358 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


SOMETHING  LEFT  UNDONE. 


Labor  with  what  zeal  we  will. 
Something  still  remains  undone, 
Something  uncompleted  still 
Waits  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

By  the  bedside,  on  the  stair, 

At  the  threshold,  near  the  gates, 
With  its  menace  or  its  prayer, 

Like  a mendicant  it  waits  ; 

Waits,  and  will  not  go  away; 
Waits,  and  will  not  be  gainsaid  ; 


By  the  cares  of  yesterday 

Each  to-day  is  heavier  made ; 

Till  at  length  the  burden  seems 

Greater  than  our  strength  can  bear, 
Heavy  as  the  weight  of  dreams, 
Pressing  on  us  everywhere. 

And  we  stand  from  day  to  day, 

Like  the  dwarfs  of  times  gone  by, 
Who,  as  Northern  legends  say, 

On  their  shoulders  held  the  sky. 


WEARINESS. 


O little  feet!  that  such  long  years 
Must  wander  on  through  hopes  and  fears, 
Must  ache  and  bleed  beneath  your  load; 
I,  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn 
Where  toil  shall  cease  and  rest  begin, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  road  ! 

O little  hands ! that,  weak  or  strong, 

Have  still  to  serve  or  rule  so  long, 

Have  still  so  long  to  give  or  ask  ; 

I,  who  so  much  with  book  and  pen 
Have  toiled  among  my  fellow-men, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  task. 


O little  hearts  ! that  throb  and  beat 
With  such  impatient,  feverish  heat, 

Such  limitless  and  strong  desires  ; 

Mine  that  so  long  has  glowed  and  burned, 
With  passions  into  ashes  turned 
Now  covers  and  conceals  its  fires. 

O little  souls ! as  pure  and  white 
And  crystalline  as  rays  of  light 

Direct  from  heaven,  their  source  divine ; 
Refracted  through  the  mist  of  years, 

How  red  my  setting  sun  appears, 

How  lurid  looks  this  soul  of  mine  ! 


HEN Ii  Y WADS  WOE  TH  L ONGFELL  0 W. 


>59 


FATA  MORGANA. 


0 sweet  illusions  of  Song, 

That  tempt  me  everywhere, 

In  the  lonely  fields,  and  the  throng 
Of  the  crowded  thoroughfare  ! 

1 approach,  and  ye  vanish  away, 

I grasp  you,  and  ye  are  gone; 

But  ever  by  night  and  by  day, 

The  melody  soundeth  on. 

As  the  weary  traveller  sees 
In  desert  or  prairie  vast, 

Blue  lakes,  overhung  with  trees, 
That  a pleasant  shadow  cast ; 


Fair  towns  with  turrets  high, 

And  shining  roofs  of  gold. 

That  vanish  as  he  draws  nigh, 

Like  mists  together  rolled,  — 

So  I wander  and  wander  along, 
And  forever  before  me  gleams 
The  shining  city  of  song, 

In  the  beautiful  land  of  dreams. 

But  when  I would  enter  the  gate 
Of  that  golden  atmosphere, 

It  is  gone,  and  I wonder  and  wait 
For  the  vision  to  reappear. 


THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER 


Each  heart  has  its  haunted  chamber. 
Where  the  silent  moonlight  falls ! 

On  the  floor  are  mysterious  footsteps, 
There  are  whispers  along  the  walls  ! 

And  mine  at  times  is  haunted 
By  phantoms  of  the  Past, 

As  motionless  as  shadows 

By  the  silent  moonlight  cast. 

A form  sits  by  the  window, 

That  is  not  seen  by  day, 

For  as  soon  as  the  dawn  approaches 
It  vanishes  away. 


It  sits  there  in  the  moonlight, 

Itself  as  pale  and  still, 

And  points  with  its  airy  finger 
Across  the  window-sill. 

Without,  before  the  window, 

There  stands  a gloomy  pine, 

Whose  boughs  wave  upward  and  downward 
As  wave  these  thoughts  of  mine. 

And  underneath  its  branches 
Is  the  grave  of  a little  child, 

Who  died  upon  life's  threshold, 

And  never  wept  nor  smiled. 


360 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


What  are  ye,  O pallid  phantoms ! 

That  haunt  my  troubled  brain  ? 
That  vanish  when  day  approaches, 
And  at  night  return  again  ? 


What  are  ye,  O pallid  phantoms ! 

But  the  statues  without  breath, 
That  stand  on  the  bridge  overarching 
The  silent  river  of  death  ? 


THE  MEETING. 


After  so  long  an  absence 
At  last  we  meet  again  : 

Does  the  meeting  give  us  pleasure, 

Or  does  it  give  us  pain? 

The  tree  of  life  has  been  shaken, 

And  but  few  of  us  linger  now, 

Like  the  Prophet’s  two  or  three  berries 
In  the  top  of  the  uppermost  bough. 

We  cordially  greet  each  other 
In  the  old,  familiar  tone ; 

And  we  think,  though  we  do  not  say  it, 
How  old  and  gray  he  is  grown ! 


We  speak  of  a Merry  Christmas 
And  many  a Happy  New  Year; 

But  each  in  his  heart  is  thinking 
Of  those  that  are  not  here. 

We  speak  of  friends  and  their  fortunes, 
And  of  what  they  did  and  said, 

Till  the  dead  alone  seem  living, 

And  the  living  alone  seem  dead. 

And  at  last  we  hardly  distinguish 
Between  the  ghosts  and  the  guests ; 
And  a mist  and  shadow  of  sadness 
Steals  over  our  merriest  jests. 


VOX  POPULI. 


When  Maztirvan  the  Magician, 

Journeyed  westward  through  Cathay, 
Nothing  heard  he  but  the  praises 
Of  Badoura  on  his  way. 

But  the  lessening  rumor  ended 
When  he  came  to  Khaledan, 


There  the  folk  were  talking  only 
Of  Prince  Camaralzaman. 

So  it  happens  with  the  poets: 
Every  province  hath  its  own; 
Camaralzaman  is  famous 

Where  Badoura  is  unknown. 


THE  CASTLE-BUILDER. 


A gentle  boy,  with  soft  and  silken  locks, 

A dreamy  boy,  with  brown  and  tender  eyes, 
A castle-builder,  with  his  wooden  blocks, 
And  towers  that  touch  imaginary  skies. 

A fearless  rider  on  his  father’s  knee, 

An  eager  listener  unto  stories  told 
At  the  Round  Table  of  the  nursery, 

Of  heroes  and  adventures  manifold. 


There  will  be  other  towers  for  thee  to  build  ; 

There  will  be  other  steeds  for  thee  to  ride ; 
There  will  be  other  legends,  and  all  filled 
With  greater  marvels  and  more  glorified. 

Build  on,  and  make  thy  castles  high  and  fair, 
Rising  and  reaching  upward  to  the  skies  ; 
Listen  to  voices  in  the  upper  air, 

Nor  lose  thy  simple  faith  in  mysteries. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


361 


CHANGED. 


Is  it  changed,  or  am  I changed  ? 

Ah ! the  oaks  are  fresh  and  green, 
But  the  friends  with  whom  I ranged 
Through  their  thickets  are  estranged 
By  the  years  that  intervene. 


Bright  as  ever  flows  the  sea, 
Bright  as  ever  shines  the  sun. 
But  alas ! they  seem  to  me 
Not  the  sun  that  used  to  be, 

Not  the  tides  that  used  to  run. 


THE  CHALLENGE. 


I have  a vague  remembrance 
Of  a story,  that  is  told 
In  some  ancient  Spanish  legend 
Or  chronicle  of  old. 

It  was  when  brave  King  Sanchez 
Was  befoi’e  Zamora  slain, 

And  his  great  besieging  army 
Lay  encamped  upon  the  plain. 
46 


Don  Diego  de  Ordonez 

Sallied  forth  in  front  of  all, 
And  shouted  loud  his  challenge 
To  the  warders  on  the  wall. 

All  the  people  of  Zamora, 

Both  the  born  and  the  unborn, 
As  traitors  did  he  challenge 
With  taunting  words  of  scorn. 


362 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


The  living,  in  their  houses, 

And  in  their  graves,  the  dead ! 

And  the  waters  of  their  rivers, 

And  their  wine,  and  oil,  and  bread  ! 

There  is  a greater  army, 

That  besets  us  round  with  strife, 

A starving,  numberless  army, 

At  all  the  gates  of  life. 

The  poverty-stricken  millions 

Who  challenge  our  wine  and  bread, 

And  impeach  us  all  as  traitors, 

Both  the  living  and  the  dead. 

And  whenever  I sit  at  the  banquet, 
Where  the  feast  and  song  are  high, 


Amid  the  mirth  and  the  music 
I can  hear  that  fearful  cry. 

And  hollow  and  haggard  faces 
Look  into  the  lighted  hall, 

And  wasted  hands  are  extended 
To  catch  the  crumbs  that  fall. 

For  within  there  is  light  and  plenty, 
And  odors  fill  the  air; 

But  without  there  is  cold  and  darkness, 
And  hunger  and  despair. 

And  there  in  the  camp  of  famine, 

In  wind  and  cold  and  rain, 

Christ,  the  great  Lord  of  the  army, 

Lies  dead  upon  the  plain  ! 


TIIE  BROOK  AND  THE  WAVE. 

The  brooklet  came  from  the  mountain,  Now  singing  along  the  sea-beach, 

As  sang  the  bard  of  old,  Now  howling  along  the  cave. 

Running  with  feet  of  silver 

Over  the  sands  of  gold ! And  the  brooklet  has  found  the  billow, 

Though  they  flowed  so  far  apart, 

Far  away  in  the  briny  ocean  And  has  fdled  with  its  freshness  and  sweetness 

There  rolled  a turbulent  wave,  That  turbulent,  bitter  heart ! 


FROM  THE  SPANISH  CANCIONEIIOS. 


1. 

Eyes  so  tristful,  eyes  so  tristful, 
Heart  so  full  of  care  and  cumber, 

I was  lapped  in  rest  and  slumber, 

Ye  have  made  me  wakeful,  wistful! 

In  this  life  of  labor  endless 
Who  shall  comfort  my  distresses  ? 
Querulous  my  soul  and  friendless 
In  its  sorrow  shuns  caresses. 

Ye  have  made  me,  ye  have  made  me 
Querulous  of  you,  that  care  not, 

Eyes  so  tristful,  yet  I dare  not 
Say  to  what  ye  have  betrayed  me. 

2. 

Some  day,  some  day, 

O troubled  breast, 

Shalt  thou  find  rest. 


If  Love  in  thee 
To  grief  give  birth, 

Six  feet  of  earth 
Can  more  than  he  ; 

There  calm  and  free 
And  unoppressed 
Shalt  thou  find  rest. 

The  unattained 
In  life  at  last, 

When  life  is  passed, 

Shall  all  be  gained; 

And  no  more  pained, 

No  more  distressed, 

Shalt  thou  find  rest. 

3. 

Come,  O Death,  so  silent  flying 
That  unheard  thy  coming  be, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


36 


Lest  the  sweet  delight  of  dying 
Bring  life  back  again  to  me. 

For  thy  sure  approach  perceiving, 
In  my  constancy  and  pain 
I new  life  should  win  again. 
Thinking  that  I am  not  living. 

So  to  me,  unconscious  lying, 

All  unknown  thy  coming  be, 

Lest  the  sweet  delight  of  dying 
Bring  life  back  again  to  me. 

Unto  him  who  finds  thee  hateful, 
Death,  thou  art  inhuman  pain ; 
But  to  me,  who  dying  gain, 

Life  is  but  a task  ungrateful. 


Come,  then,  with  my  wish  complying, 
All  unhean  1 % coming  be, 

Lest  the  sweet  delight  of  dying 
Bring  life  back  again  to  me. 

4. 

Glove  of  black  in  white  hand  bare, 
And  about  her  forehead  pale 
Wound  a thin,  transparent  veil, 

That  doth  not  conceal  her  hair ; 
Sovereign  attitude  and  air, 

Cheek  and  neck  alike  displayed, 

With  coquettish  charms  arrayed, 
Laughing  eyes  and  fugitive;  — 

This  is  killing  men  that  live, 

’T  is  not  mourning  for  the  dead. 


AFTERMATH. 


When  the  summer  fields  are  mown, 
When  the  birds  are  fledged  and  flown, 
And  the  dry  leaves  strew  the  path  ; 
With  the  falling  of  the  snow, 

With  the  cawing  of  the  crow, 

Once  again  the  fields  we  mow 
And  gather  in  the  aftermath. 


Not  the  sweet,  new  grass  with  flowers 
Is  this  harvesting  of  ours ; 

Not  the  upland  clover  bloom ; 

But  the  rowen  mixed  with  weeds, 
Tangled  tufts  from  marsh  and  meads, 
Where  the  poppy  drops  its  seeds 
In  the  silence  and  the  gloom. 


3G4 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


EPIMETHEUS, 

OR  THE  POET’S  AFTPHM'HOUGHT. 


Have  I dreamed  ? or  was  it  real, 

What  I saw  as  in  a vision, 

When  to  marches  hymeneal 
In  the  land  of  the  Ideal 

Moved  iny  thought  o’er  Fields  Elysian  ? 

Wh  at ! are  these  the  guests  whose  glances 
Seemed  like  sunshine  gleaming  round 

me  ? 

These  the  wild,  bewildering  fancies, 

That  with  dithyrambic  dances 

As  with  magic  circles  bound  me  ? 

Ah  ! how  cold  are  their  caresses  ! 

Pallid  cheeks,  and  haggard  bosoms ! 
Spectral  gleam  their  snow-white  dresses, 
And  from  loose,  dishevelled  tresses 
Fall  the  hyacinthine  blossoms  ! 

O my  songs ! whose  winsome  measures 
Filled  my  heart  with  secret  rapture  ! 
Children  of  my  golden  leisures  ! 

Must  even  your  delights  and  pleasures 
Fade  and  perish  with  the  capture? 

Fair  they  seemed,  those  songs  sonorous, 
When  they  came  to  me  unbidden ; 
Voices  single,  and  in  chorus, 

Like  the  wild  birds  singing  o’er  us 
In  the  dark  of  branches  hidden. 

Disenchantment ! Disillusion  ! 

Must  each  noble  aspiration 
Come  at  last  to  this  conclusion, 

Jarring  discord,  wild  confusion, 

Lassitude,  renunciation  ? 

Not  with  steeper  fall  nor  faster, 

From  the  sun’s  serene  dominions, 


Not  through  brighter  realms  nor  vaster, 

In  swift  ruin  and  disaster, 

Icarus  fell  with  shattered  pinions  ! 

Sweet  Pandora  ! dear  Pandora  ! 

Why  did  mighty  Jove  create  thee 
Coy  as  Thetis,  fair  as  Flora, 

Beautiful  as  young  Aurora, 

If  to  win  thee  is  to  hate  thee  ? 

No,  not  hate  thee  ! for  this  feeling 
Of  unrest  and  long  resistance 
Is  but  passionate  appealing, 

A prophetic  whisper  stealing 

O’er  the  chords  of  our  existence. 

Him  whom  thou  dost  once  enamor, 

Thou,  beloved,  never  leavest ; 

In  life's  discord,  strife,  and  clamor, 

Still  he  feels  thy  spell  of  glamour ; 

Him  of  Hope  thou  ne’er  bereavest. 

Weary  hearts  by  thee  are  lifted, 

Struggling  souls  by  thee  are  strengthened, 
Clouds  of  fear  asunder  rifted, 

Truth  from  falsehood  cleansed  and  sifted, 
Lives,  like  days  in  summer,  lengthened  ! 

Therefore  art  thou  ever  dearer, 

O my  Sibyl,  my  deceiver ! 

For  thou  makest  each  mystery  clearer, 

And  the  unattained  seems  nearer, 

When  thou  fillest  my  heart  with  fever ! 

Muse  of  all  the  Gifts  and  Graces  ! 

Though  the  fields  around  us  wither, 

There  are  ampler  realms  and  spaces, 

Where  no  foot  has  left  its  traces: 

Let  us  turn  and  wander  thither ! 


HEN  It  Y IV A US  WOli  TH  L ON  GFELL  0 W. 


165 


CHARLES  SUMNER. 


Garlands  upon  his  grave 
And  flowers  upon  his  hearse, 

And  to  the  tender  heart  and  brave 
The  tribute  of  this  verse. 

His  was  the  troubled  life, 

The  conflict  and  the  pain, 

The  grief,  the  bitterness  of  strife, 

The  honor  without  stain. 

Like  Winkelried,  he  took 
Into  his  manly  breast 
The  sheaf  of  hostile  spears,  and  broke 
A path  for  the  oppressed. 

Then  from  the  fatal  field 
Upon  a nation’s  heart 
Borne  like  a warrior  on  his  shield  ! — 
So  should  the  brave  depart. 

Death  takes  us  by  surprise, 

And  stays  our  hurrying  feet; 


The  great  design  unfinished  lies, 

Our  lives  are  incomplete. 

But  in  the  dark  unknown 
Perfect  their  circles  seem, 

Even  as  a bridge’s  arch  of  stone 
Is  rounded  in  the  stream. 

Alike  are  life  and  death, 

When  life  in  death  survives, 

And  the  uninterrupted  breath 
Inspires  a thousand  lives. 

Were  a star  quenched  on  high, 

For  ages  would  its  light, 

Still  travelling  downward  from  the  sky, 
Shine  on  our  mortal  sight. 

So  when  a great  man  dies, 

For  years  beyond  our  ken, 

The  light  he  leaves  behind  him  lies 
Upon  the  paths  of  men. 


TRAVELS  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


The  ceaseless  rain  is  falling  fast, 

And  yonder  ‘gilded  vane, 

Immovable  for  three  days  past, 

Points  to  the  misty  main. 

It  d rives  me  in  upon  myself 
And  to  the  fireside  gleams, 

To  pleasant  books  that  crowd  my  shelf. 
And  still  more  pleasant  dreams. 


I read  whatever  bards  have  sung 
Of  lands  beyond  the  sea, 

And  the  bright  days  when  I was  young 
Come  thronging  back  to  me. 

O o 

In  fancy  I can  hear  again 
The  Alpine  torrent’s  roar, 

The  mule-bells  on  the  hills  of  Spain, 
The  sea  at  Elsinore. 


3G6 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


I see  the  convent's  gleaming?  wall 
Rise  from  its  groves  of  pine, 

And  towers  of  old  cathedrals  tall, 

And  castles  by  the  Rhine. 

I journey  on  by  park  and  spire, 
Beneath  centennial  trees, 

Through  fields  with  poppies  all  on  fire, 
And  gleams  of  distant  seas. 

I fear  no  more  the  dust  and  heat, 

No  more  I feel  fatigue, 


While  journeying  with  another’s  feet 
O’er  many  a lengthening  league. 


Let  others  traverse  sea  and  land, 

And  toil  through  various  climes, 

I turn  the  world  round  with  my  hand 
Reading  these  poets'  rhymes. 

From  them  I learn  whatever  lies 
Beneath  each  changing  zone, 

And  see,  when  looking  with  their  eyes, 
Better  than  with  mine  own. 


CADENABBIA. 

LAKE  OF  COMO. 


HENR  Y WA  DS  WOR  Til  L ON G FELL  0 W. 


367 


At  times  a sudden  rush  of  air 
Flutters  the  lazy  leaves  o’erhead, 

And  gleams  of  sunshine  toss  and  flare 
Like  torches  down  the  path  1 tread. 

By  Somariva’s  garden  gate 

I make  the  marble  stairs  my  seat, 
And  hear  the  water,  as  I wait, 

Lapping  the  steps  beneath  my  feet. 

The  undulation  sinks  and  swells 
Along  the  stony  parapets, 

And  far  away  the  floating  bells 
Tinkle  upon  the  fisher’s  nets. 

Silent  and  slow,  by  tower  and  town 
The  freighted  barges  come  and  go, 
Their  pendent  shadows  gliding  down 
By  town  and  tower  submerged  below. 

The  hills  sweep  upward  from  the  shore, 
With  villas  scattered  one  by  one 


Upon  their  wooded  spurs,  and  lower 
Bellaggio  blazing  in  the  sun. 

And  dimly  seen,  a tangled  mass 

Of  walls  and  woods,  of  light  and  shade, 

Stands  beckoning  up  the  Stelvio  Pass 
Varenna  with  its  white  cascade. 

I ask  myself,  Is  this  a dream  ? 

Will  it  all  vanish  into  air? 

Is  there  a land  of  such  supreme 
And  perfect  beauty  anywhere  ? 

Sweet  vision  ! Do  not  fade  away  : 

Linger  until  my  heart  shall  take 

Into  itself  the  summer  day, 

And  all  the  beauty  of  the  lake. 

Linger  until  upon  my  brain 

Is  stamped  an  image  of  the  scene, 

Then  fade  into  the  air  again, 

And  be  as  if  thou  hadst  not  been. 


MONTE  CASSINO. 

TERRA  DI  LAVORO. 


Beautiful  valley ! through  whose  verdant 
meads 

Unheard  the  Garigliano  glides  along;  — 
The  Liris,  nurse  of  rushes  and  of  reeds, 

The  river  taciturn  of  classic  song. 

The  Land  of  Labor  and  the  Land  of  Rest, 
Where  mediaeval  towns  are  white  on  all 
The  hillsides,  and  where  every  mountain’s 
crest 

Is  an  Etrurian  or  a Roman  wall. 

There  is  Alagna,  where  Pope  Boniface 
Was  dragged  with  contumely  from  his 
throne  ; 

Sciarra  Colonna,  was  that  day’s  disgrace 
The  Pontiff’s  only,  or  in  part  thine  own  ? 

There  is  Ceprano,  where  a renegade 

Was  each  Apulian,  as  great  Dante  saith, 
When  Manfred  by  his  men-at-arms  betrayed 
Spurred  on  to  Benevento  and  to  death. 


There  is  Aquinum,  the  old  Volscian  town. 
Where  Juvenal  was  born,  whose  lurid 
light 

Still  hovers  o’er  his  birthplace  like  the 
crown 

Of  splendor  seen  o’er  cities  in  the  night. 

Doubled  the  splendor  is,  that  in  its  streets 
The  Angelic  Doctor  as  a school-boy  played, 
And  dreamed  perhaps  the  dreams,  that  he 
repeats 

In  ponderous  folios  for  scholastics  made. 

And  there,  uplifted,  like  a passing  cloud 
That  pauses  on  a mountain  summit  high, 
Monte  Cassino’s  convent  rears  its  proud 
And  venerable  walls  against  the  sky. 

Well  I remember  how  on  foot  I climbed 
The  stony  pathway  leading  to  its  gate ; 
Above,  the  convent  bells  for  vespers  chimed, 
Below,  the  darkening  town  grew  desolate. 


368 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Well  I remember  the  low  arch  and  dark, 
The  court-yard  with  its  well,  the  terrace 
wide, 

From  which,  far  down,  the  valley  like  a park, 
Veiled  in  the  evening  mists,  was  dim  de- 
scried. 

The  day  was  dying,  and  with  feeble  hands 
Caressed  the  mountain-tops ; the  vales  be- 
tween 

Darkened ; the  river  in  the  meadowlands 
Sheathed  itself  as  a sword,  and  was  not  seen. 

The  silence  of  the  place  was  like  a sleep, 

So  full  of  rest  it  seemed ; each  passing  tread 

W as  a reverberation  from  the  deep 
Recesses  of  the  ages  that  are  dead. 

For,  more  than  thirteen  centuries  ago, 
Benedict  fleeing  from  the  gates  of  Rome, 

A youth  disgusted  with  its  vice  and  woe, 
Sought  in  these  mountain  solitudes  a home. 

He  founded  here  his  Convent  and  his  Rule 
Of  prayer  and  work,  and  counted  work  as 
prayer  ; 

The  pen  became  a clarion,  and  his  school 
Flamed  like  a beacon  in  the  midnight  air. 

What  though  Boccaccio,  in  his  reckless  way, 
Mocking  the  lazy  brotherhood,  deplores 

The  illuminated  manuscripts,  that  lay 
Torn  and  neglected  on  the  dusty  floors  ? 

Boccaccio  was  a novelist,  a child 
Of  fancy  and  of  fiction  at  the  best ! 


This  the  urbane  librarian  said,  and  smiled 
Incredulous,  as  at  some  idle  jest. 

Upon  such  themes  as  these,  with  one  young 
friar 

I sat  conversing  late  into  the  night, 

Till  in  its  cavernous  chimney  the  wood-lire 
Had  burnt  its  heart  out  like  an  anchorite. 

And  then  translated,  in  my  convent  cell, 
Myself  yet  not  myself,  in  dreams  I lay, 
And,  as  a monk  who  hears  the  matin  bell, 
Started  from  sleep ; — already  it  was  day. 

From  the  high  window  I beheld  the  scene 
On  which  Saint  Benedict  so  oft  had  gazed, — 
The  mountains  and  the  valley  in  the  sheen 
Of  the  bright  sun,  — and  stood  as  one 
amazed. 

Gray  mists  were  rolling,  rising,  vanishing ; 
The  woodlands  glistened  with  their  jewelled 
crowns ; 

Far  off  the  mellow  bells  began  to  ring 
For  matins  in  the  half-awakened  towns. 

The  conflict  of  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
The  ideal  and  the  actual  in  our  life, 

As  on  a field  of  battle  held  me  fast, 

Where  this  world  and  the  next  world  were 
at  strife. 

For,  as  the  valley  from  its  sleep  awoke, 

I saw  the  iron  horses  of  the  steam 
Toss  to  the  morning  air  their  plumes  of  smoke, 
And  woke,  as  one  awaketh  from  a dream. 


AMALFI. 


Sweet  the  memory  is  to  me 
Of  a land  beyond  the  sea, 

Where  the  waves  and  mountains  meet, 
Where,  amid  her  mulberry-trees 
Sits  Amalfi  in  the  heat, 

Bathing  ever  her  white  feet 
In  the  tideless  summer  seas. 

In  the  middle  of  the  town, 

From  its  fountains  in  the  hills, 


Tumbling  through  the  narrow  gorge, 
The  Canneto  rushes  down, 

Turns  the  great  wheels  of  the  mills. 
Lifts  the  hammers  of  the  forge. 

’T  is  a stairway,  not  a street, 

That  ascends  the  deep  ravine, 

Where  the  torrent  leaps  between 
Rocky  walls  that  almost  meet. 
Toiling  up  from  stair  to  stair 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


3G9 


Peasant  girls  their  burdens  bear; 
Sunburnt  daughters  of  the  soil, 
Stately  figures  tall  and  straight, 
What  inexorable  fate 
Dooms  them  to  this  life  of  toil  ? 

Lord  of  vineyards  and  of  lands, 

Far  above  the  convent  stands. 

On  its  terraced  walk  aloof 
Leans  a monk  with  folded  hands, 
Placid,  satisfied,  serene, 

Looking  down  upon  the  scene 
Over  wall  and  red-tiled  roof ; 
Wondering  unto  what  good  end 
All  this  toil  and  traffic  tend, 

And  why  all  men  cannot  be 
F ree  from  care  and  free  from  pain, 
And  the  sordid  love  of  gain, 

And  as  indolent  as  he. 

47 


Where  are  now  the  freighted  barks 
From  the  marts  of  east  and  west? 
Where  the  knights  in  iron  sarks 
Journeying  to  the  Holy  Land, 

Glove  of  steel  upon  the  hand, 

Cross  of  crimson  on  the  breast  ? 

Where  the  pomp  of  camp  and  court  ? 
Where  the  pilgrims  with  their  prayers  ? 
Where  the  merchants  with  tlieir  wares, 
And  their  gallant  brigantines 
Sailing  safely  into  port 
Chased  by  corsair  Algerines  ? 

Vanished  like  a fleet  of  cloud, 

Like  a passing  trumpet-blast, 

Are  those  splendors  of  the  past, 

And  the  commerce  and  the  crowd ! 
Fathoms  deep  beneath  the  seas 
Lie  the  ancient  wharves  and  quays, 


370 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Swallowed  by  the  engulfing  waves ; 
Silent  streets  and  vacant  halls, 
Ruined  roofs  and  towers  and  walls ; 
Hidden  from  all  mortal  eyes 
Deep  the  sunken  city  lies : 

Even  cities  have  their  graves ! 

This  is  an  enchanted  land  ! 

Round  the  headlands  far  away 
Sweeps  the  blue  Salernian  bay 
With  its  sickle  of  white  sand  : 
Further  still  and  furthermost 
On  the  dim  discovered  coast 
Prestum  with  its  ruins  lies, 

And  its  roses  all  in  bloom 
Seem  to  tinge  the  fatal  skies 
Of  that  lonely  land  of  doom. 

On  his  terrace,  high  in  air, 

Nothing  doth  the  good  monk  care 
For  such  worldly  themes  as  these. 
From  the  garden  just  below 


Little  puffs  of  perfume  blow, 

And  a sound  is  in  his  ears 
Of  the  murmur  of  the  bees 
In  the  shining  chestnut  trees; 
Nothing  else  he  heeds  or  hears. 

All  the  landscape  seems  to  swoon 
In  the  happy  afternoon  ; 

Slowly  o'er  his  senses  creep 
The  encroaching  waves  of  sleep, 
And  he  sinks  as  sank  the  town, 
Unresisting,  fathoms  down, 

Into  caverns  cool  and  deep ! 

Walled  about  with  drifts  of  snow, 
Hearing  the  fierce  north- wind  blow, 
Seeing  all  the  landscape  white, 

And  the  river  cased  in  ice, 

Comes  this  memory  of  delight, 
Comes  this  vision  unto  me 
Of  a long-lost  Paradise 
In  the  land  beyond  the  sea. 


THE  SERMON  OF  ST.  FRANCIS. 


Up  soared  the  lark  into  the  air, 

A shaft  of  song,  a winged  prayer, 

As  if  a soul  released  from  pain, 

Were  flying  back  to  heaven  again. 

St.  Francis  heard ; it  was  to  him 
An  emblem  of  the  Seraphim  ; 

The  upward  motion  of  the  fire, 

The  light,  the  heat,  the  heart’s  desire. 

Around  Assisi’s  convent  gate 
The  birds,  God’s  poor  who  cannot  wait, 
From  moor  and  mere  and  darksome  wood 
Came  flocking  for  their  dole  of  food. 

“O  brother  birds,”  St.  Francis  said, 

“ Ye  come  to  me  and  ask  for  bread, 

But  not  with  bread  alone  to-day 
Shall  ye  be  fed  and  sent  away. 

“ Ye  shall  be  fed,  ye  happy  birds, 

With  manna  of  celestial  words; 


Not  mine,  though  mine  they  seem  to  be, 

Not  mine,  though  they  be  spoken  through  me. 

“ Oh,  doubly  are  ye  bound  to  praise 
The  great  Creator  in  your  lays ; 

He  giveth  you  your  plumes  of  down, 

Your  crimson  hoods,  your  cloaks  of  brown. 

“He  giveth  you  your  wings  to  fly 
And  breathe  a purer  air  on  high, 

And  careth  for  you  everywhere, 

Who  for  yourselves  so  little  care  ! ” 

With  flutter  of  swift  wings  and  songs 
Together  rose  the  feathered  throngs, 

And  singing  scattered  far  apart ; 

Deep  peace  was  in  St.  Francis  heart. 

He  knew  not  if  the  brotherhood 
His  homily  had  understood  ; 

He  only  knew  that  to  one  ear 
The  meaning  of  his  words  was  clear. 


{tit  IIWMilt 

Of  f»E 


artist:  f.  s.  church. 


"O  brother  birds,"  St  Francis  said, 

' Ye  come  to  me  and  ask  for  bread." 

The  Sermon  of  St.  Francis . 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW- 


37 


BELISARIUS. 


I AM  poor  ami  old  and  blind ; 

The  sun  burns  me,  and  the  wind 
Blows  through  the  city  gate, 
And  covers  me  with  dust 
From  the  wheels  of  the  august 
Justinian  the  Great. 

It  was  for  him  I chased 
The  Persians  o’er  wild  and  waste, 
As  General  of  the  East ; 
Night  after  night  I lay 
In  their  camps  of  yesterday  ; 

Their  forage  was  my  feast. 

For  him,  with  sails  of  red, 

And  torches  at  mast-head, 

Piloting  the  great  fleet, 

I swept  the  Afric  coasts 
And  scattered  the  Vandal  hosts, 
Like  dust  in  a windy  street. 


For  him  I won  again 
The  Ausonian  realm  and  reign, 
Rome  and  Parthenopc ; 

And  all  the  land  was  mine 
From  the  summits  of  Apennine 
To  the  shores  of  either  sea. 

For  him,  in  my  feeble  age, 

I dared  the  battle’s  rage, 

To  save  Byzantium’s  state, 
When  the  tents  of  Zabergan 
Like  snow-drifts  overran 

The  road  to  the  Golden  Gate. 

And  for  this,  for  this,  behold  ! 
Infirm  and  blind  and  old, 

With  gray,  uncovered  head, 
Beneath  the  very  arch 
Of  my  triumphal  march, 

I stand  and  beg  my  bread ! 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


Methinks  I still  can  hear, 
Sounding  distinct  and  near, 

The  Vandal  monarch’s  cry, 
As,  captive  and  disgraced, 

With  majestic  step  he  paced, — 
“All,  all  is  Vanity!” 

Ah  ! vainest  of  all  things 
Is  the  gratitude  of  kings ; 

The  plaudits  of  the  crowd 


Are  but  the  clatter  of  feet 
At  midnight  in  the  street, 

Hollow  and  restless  and  loud. 

But  the  bitterest  disgrace 
Is  to  see  forever  the  face 

Of  the  Monk  of  Ephesus  ! 
The  unconquerable  will 
This,  too,  can  bear; — I still 
Am  Belisarius  ! 


SONGO  RIVER. 


Nowhere  such  a devious  stream, 

Save  in  fancy  or  in  dream, 

Winding  slow  through  bush  and  brake 
Links  together  lake  and  lake. 

Walled  with  woods  or  sandy  shelf, 
Ever  doubling  on  itself 
Flows  the  stream,  so  still  and  slow 
That  it  hardly  seems  to  flow. 

Never  errant  knight  of  old, 

Lost  in  woodland  or  on  wold, 

Such  a winding  path  pursued 
Through  the  sylvan  solitude. 

Never  school-bov  in  his  quest 
After  hazel-nut  or  nest, 

Through  the  forest  in  and  out 
Wandered  loitering  thus  about. 

In  the  mirror  of  its  tide 
Tangled  thickets  on  each  side 
Hang  inverted,  and  between 
Floating  cloud  or  sky  serene. 

Swift  or  swallow  on  the  wing 
Seems  the  only  living  thing, 


Or  the  loon,  that  laughs  and  flies 
Down  to  those  reflected  skies. 

Silent  stream  ! thy  Indian  name 
Unfamiliar  is  to  fame  ; 

For  thou  hidest  here  alone, 

Well  content  to  be  unknown. 

But  thy  tranquil  waters  teach 
Wisdom  deep  as  human  speech, 
Moving  without  haste  or  noise 
In  unbroken  equipoise. 

Though  thou  turnest  no  busy  mill, 
And  art  ever  calm  and  still, 

Even  thy  silence  seems  to  say 
To  the  traveller  on  his  way : — 

“Traveller,  hurrying  from  the  heat 
Of  the  city,  stay  thy  feet ! 

Rest  awhile,  nor  longer  waste 
Life  with  inconsiderate  haste ! 

“ Be  not  like  a stream  that  brawls 
Loud  with  shallow  waterfalls, 

But  in  quiet  self-control 
Link  together  soul  and  soul.” 


\ 


THE  WAYSIDE  INN. 


PRELUDE. 

THE  WAYSIDE  INN. 


One  Autumn  night,  in  Sudbury  town, 

Across  the  meadows  bare  and  brown 
The  windows  of  the  wayside  inn 
Gleamed  red  with  fire-light  through  the  leaves 
Of  woodbine,  hanging  from  the  eaves 
Their  crimson  curtains  rent  and  thin. 

As  ancient  is  this  hostelry 
As  any  in  the  land  may  be, 

Built  in  the  old  Colonial  day, 

When  men  lived  in  a grander  way, 

With  ampler  hospitality ; 

A kind  of  old  Hobgoblin  Hall, 

Now  somewhat  fallen  to  decay, 

With  weather-stains  upon  the  wall, 

And  stairways  worn,  and  crazy  doors, 

And  creaking  and  uneven  floors, 

And  chimneys  huge,  and  tiled  and  tall. 

A region  of  repose  it  seems, 

A place  of  slumber  and  of  dreams, 

Remote  among  the  wooded  hills ! 

For  there  no  noisy  railway  speeds, 

Its  torch-race  scattering  smoke  and  gleeds ; 
But  noon  and  night,  the  panting  teams 
Stop  under  the  great  oaks,  that  throw 
Tangles  of  light  and  shade  below, 

On  roofs  and  doors  and  window-sills. 

Across  the  road  the  barns  display 
Their  lines  of  stalls,  their  mows  of  hay, 
Through  the  wide  doors  the  breezes  blow, 
The  wattled  cocks  strut  to  and  fro. 

And,  half  effaced  by  rain  and  shine, 


The  Red  Horse  prances  on  the  sign. 

Round  this  old-fashioned,  quaint  abode 
Deep  silence  reigned,  save  when  a gust 
Went  rushing  down  the  county  road, 

And  skeletons  of  leaves,  and  dust, 

A moment  quickened  by  its  breath, 
Shuddered  and  danced  their  dance  of  death. 
And  through  the  ancient  oaks  o’erhead 
Mysterious  voices  moaned  and  fled. 

But  from  the  parlor  of  the  inn 
A pleasant  murmur  smote  the  ear, 

Like  water  rushing  through  a weir : 

Oft  interrupted  by  the  din 
Of  laughter  and  of  loud  applause, 

And,  in  each  intervening  pause, 

The  music  of  a violin. 

The  fire-light,  shedding  over  all 
'Lbe  splendor  of  its  ruddy  glow, 

Filled  the  whole  parlor  large  and  low ; 

It  gleamed  on  wainscot  and  on  wall, 

It  touched  with  more  than  Avonted  grace 
Fair  Princess  Mary’s  pictured  face ; 

It  bronzed  the  rafters  overhead, 

On  the  old  spinet’s  ivory  keys 
It  played  inaudible  melodies, 

It  crowned  the  sombre  clock  with  flame, 
The  hands,  the  hours,  the  maker’s  name 
And  painted  Avith  a livelier  red 
The  Landlord’s  coat-of-arms  again ; 

And,  flashing  on  the  windoAV-pane, 
Emblazoned  with  its  light  and  shade 
The  jovial  rhymes,  that  still  remain, 


370 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Writ  near  a century  ago, 

By  the  great  Major  Molineaux, 

Whom  Hawthorne  has  immortal  made. 

Before  the  blazing  fire  of  wood 
Erect  the  rapt  musician  stood ; 

And  ever  and  anon  he  bent 
His  head  upon  his  instrument, 

And  seemed  to  listen,  till  he  caught 
Confessions  of  its  secret  thought,  — 

The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  lament, 

The  exultation  and  the  pain ; 

Then,  by  the  magic  of  His  art, 

He  soothed  the  tlirobbings  of  its  heart, 
And  lulled  it  into  peace  again. 

Around  the  fireside  at  their  ease 
There  sat  a group  of  friends,  entranced 


With  the  delicious  melodies; 

Who  from  the  far-off  noisy  town 
Had  to  the  wayside  inn  come  down, 

To  rest  beneath  its  old  oak  trees. 

The  fire-light  on  their  faces  glanced, 

Their  shadows  on  the  wainscot  danced. 
And,  though  of  different  lands  and  speech, 
Each  had  his  tale  to  tell,  and  each 
Was  anxious  to  be  pleased  and  please. 
And  while  the  sweet  musician  plays, 

Let  me  in  outline  sketch  them  all, 
Perchance  uncouthly  as  the  blaze 
With  its  uncertain  touch  portrays 
Their  shadowy  semblance  on  the  wall. 

But  first  the  Landlord  will  I trace ; 

Grave  in  his  aspect  and  attire  ; 

A man  of  ancient  pedigree, 


lift  NR  Y IV  A I)S  won  Til  L ON  (IF  ST  L 0 IV. 


377 


A Justice  of  the  Peace  was  lie, 

Known  in  all  Suclbury  as  “The  Squire.” 
Proud  was  he  of  his  name  and  race, 

Of  old  Sir  William  and  Sir  Hugh, 

And  in  the  parlor,  full  in  view. 

II  is  coat-of-arms,  well  framed  and  glazed, 
Upon  the  wall  in  colors  blazed ; 

He  beareth  gules  upon  his  shield, 

A chevron  argent  in  the  field, 

With  three  wolf’s  heads,  and  for  the  crest 

A Wyvern  part-per-palc  addressed 

Upon  a helmet  barred;  below 

The  scroll  reads,  “ By  the  name  of  Howe.” 

And  over  this,  no  longer  bright, 

Though  glimmering  with  a latent  light, 

Was  lmng  the  sword  his  grandsire  bore 
In  the  rebellious  days  of  yore, 

Down  there  at  Concord  in  the  fight. 

A youth  was  there,  of  quiet  ways, 

A Student  of  old  books  and  days, 

To  whom  all  tongues  and  lands  were  known, 
And  yet  a lover  of  his  own  ; 

With  many  a social  virtue  graced, 

And  yet  a friend  of  solitude  ; 

A man  of  such  a genial  mood 
The  heart  of  all  things  he  embraced, 

And  yet  of  such  fastidious  taste, 

He  never  found  the  best  too  good. 

Books  were  his  passion  and  delight, 

And  in  his  upper  room  at  home 
Stood  many  a rare  and  sumptuous  tome, 

In  vellum  bound,  with  gold  bediglit, 

Great  volumes  garmented  in  white, 

Recalling  Florence,  Pisa,  Rome. 

He  loved  the  twilight  that  surrounds 
The  border-land  of  old  romance ; 

Where  glitter  hauberk,  helm,  and  lance, 

And  banner  waves,  and  trumpet  sounds, 

And  ladies  ride  with  hawk  on  wrist, 

And  mighty  warriors  sweep  along, 

Magnified  by  the  purple  mist, 

The  dusk  of  centuries  and  of  song. 

The  chronicles  of  Charlemagne, 

Of  Merlin  and  the  Mort  d’Arthure, 

Mingled  together  in  his  brain 
With  tales  of  Flores  and  Blanchefleur, 

Sir  Ferumbras,  Sir  Eglamour, 

Sir  Launcelot,  Sir  Morgadour, 

Sir  Guy,  Sir  Bevis,  Sir  Gawain. 

48 


A young  Sicilian,  too,  was  there ; 

In  sight  of  Etna  born  and  bred, 

Some  breath  of  its  volcanic  air 
Was  glowing  in  his  heart  and  brain, 

And,  being  rebellious  to  his  liege, 

After  Palermo’s  fatal  siege, 

Across  the  western  seas  he  fled, 

In  good  King  Bomba’s  happy  reign. 

1 1 is  face  was  like  a summer  night, 

All  Hooded  with  a dusky  light ; 

1 1 is  hands  were  small  ; his  teeth  shone  white 
As  sea-shells,  when  he  smiled  or  spoke  ; 

Ilis  sinews  supple  and  strong  as  oak  ; 

Clean  shaven  was  he  as  a priest, 

Who  at  the  mass  on  Sunday  sings, 

Save  that  upon  his  upper  lip 

His  beard,  a good  palm’s  length  at  least, 

Level  and  pointed  at  the  tip, 

Shot  sideways,  like  a swallow’s  wings. 

The  poets  read  he  o'er  and  o’er, 

And  most  of  all  the  Immortal  Four 
Of  Italy;  and  next  to  those, 

The  story-telling  bard  of  prose, 

Who  wrote  the  joyous  Tuscan  tales 
Of  the  Decameron,  that  make 
Fiesole’s  green  hills  and  vales 
Remembered  for  Boccaccio’s  sake. 

Much  too  of  music  was  his  thought ; 

The  melodies  and  measures  fraught 
With  sunshine  and  the  open  air, 

Of  vineyards  and  the  singing  sea 
Of  his  beloved  Sicily; 

And  much  it  pleased  him  to  peruse 
The  songs  of  the  Sicilian  muse,  — 

Bucolic  songs  by  Meli  sung 
In  the  familiar  peasant  tongue, 

That  made  men  say,  “ Behold  ! once  more 
The  pitying  gods  to  earth  restore 
Theocritus  of  Syracuse  ! ” 

A Spanish  Jew  from  Alicant 

With  aspect  grand  and  grave  was  there  ; 

Vender  of  silks  and  fabrics  rare, 

And  attar  of  rose  from  the  Levant. 

Like  an  old  Patriarch  he  appeared, 

Abraham  or  Isaac,  or  at  least 
Some  later  Prophet  or  High-Priest ; 

With  lustrous  eyes,  and  olive  skin, 

And,  wildly  tossed  from  cheeks  and  chin, 

The  tumbling  cataract  of  his  beard. 


78 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


His  garments  breathed  a spicy  scent 
Of  cinnamon  and  sandal  blent, 

Like  the  soft  aromatic  gales 
That  meet  the  mariner,  who  sails 
Through  the  Moluccas,  and  the  seas 
That  wash  the  shores  of  Celebes. 

All  stories  that  recorded  are 
By  Pierre  Alphonse  he  knew  by  heart, 
And  it  was  rumored  he  could  say 
The  Parables  of  Sandabar, 

And  all  the  Fables  of  Pilpay, 

Or  if  not  all,  the  greater  part  ! 

Well  versed  was  he  in  Hebrew  books, 
Talmud  and  Targum,  and  the  lore 
Of  Kabala  ; and  evermore 
There  was  a mystery  in  his  looks ; 

His  eyes  seemed  gazing  far  away, 

As  if  in  vision  or  in  trance 
He  heard  the  solemn  sackbut  play, 

And  saw  the  Jewish  maidens  dance. 

A Theologian,  from  the  school 
Of  Cambridge  on  the  Charles,  was  there  ; 
Skilful  alike  with  tongue  and  pen, 

He  preached  to  all  men  everywhere 
The  Gospel  of  the  Golden  Rule, 

The  New  Commandment  given  to  men, 
Thinking  the  deed,  and  not  the  creed, 

W ould  help  us  in  our  utmost  need. 

With  reverent  feet  the  earth  he  trod, 

Nor  banished  nature  from  his  plan, 

But  studied  still  with  deep  research 
To  build  the  Universal  Church, 

Lofty  as  in  the  love  of  God, 

And  ample  as  the  wants  of  man. 

A Poet,  too,  was  there,  whose  verse 
Was  tender,  musical,  and  terse ; 

The  inspiration,  the  delight, 

The  gleam,  the  glory,  the  SAvift  flight, 

Of  thoughts  so  sudden,  that  they  seem 
The  revelations  of  a dream, 

All  these  Avere  his  ; but  with  them  came 
No  envy  of  another’s  fame  ; 

He  did  not  find  his  sleep  less  SAveet 
For  music  in  some  neighboring  street, 

Nor  rustling  hear  in  every  breeze 
The  laurels  of  Miltiades. 

Honor  and  blessings  on  his  head 
While  living,  good  report  Avhen  dead, 


Who,  not  too  eager  for  renown, 

Accepts,  but  does  not  clutch,  the  crown  ! 

Last  the  Musician,  as  he  stood 
Illumined  by  that  fire  of  Avood ; 
Fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  his  aspect  blithe, 
His  figure  tall  and  straight  and  lithe, 

And  every  feature  of  his  face 
Revealing  his  Norwegian  race  ; 

A radiance,  streaming  from  Avithin, 

Around  his  eyes  and  forehead  beamed, 

The  Angel  with  the  violin, 

Painted  by  Raphael,  he  seemed. 

He  lived  in  that  ideal  world 
Whose  language  is  not  speech,  but  song ; 
Around  him  evermore  the  throng 
Of  elves  and  sprites  their  dances  Avhirled  ; 
The  Stromkarl  sang,  the  cataract  hurled 
Its  headlong  Avaters  from  the  height ; 

And  mingled  in  the  wild  delight 
The  scream  of  sea-birds  in  their  flight, 

'Lhe  rumor  of  the  forest  trees, 

The  plunge  of  the  implacable  seas, 

The  tumult  of  the  wind  at  night, 

Voices  of  eld,  like  trumpets  bloAving, 

Old  ballads,  and  Avild  melodies 
Through  mist  and  darkness  pouring  forth, 
Like  Elivagar’s  river  fioAving 
Out  of  the  glaciers  of  the  North. 

The  instrument  on  Avhich  he  played 
W;is  in  Cremona’s  workshops  made, 

By  a great  master  of  the  past, 

Ere  yet  Avas  lost  the  ait  divine  ; 
Fashioned  of  maple  and  of  pine, 

That  in  Tyrolian  forests  vast 

Had  rocked  and  Avrestled  Avitli  the  blast: 

Exquisite  Avas  it  in  design, 

Perfect  in  each  minutest  part, 

A marvel  of  the  lutist’s  art ; 

And  in  its  IioHoav  chamber,  thus, 

The  maker  from  whose  hands  it  came 
Had  Avritten  his  unrivalled  name,  — 

“ Antonins  Stradivarius.” 

And  Avhen  he  played,  the  atmosphere 
Was  filled  with  magic,  and  the  ear 
Caught  echoes  of  that  Harp  of  Gold, 
Whose  music  had  so  Aveird  a sound, 

The  hunted  stag  forgot  to  bound, 


11ENR  Y WA  DS  IVOR  TH  /,  ON G FELL  O IV. 


370 


The  leaping  rivulet  backward  rolled, 

The  birds  came  down  from  bush  and 
tree, 

The  dead  came  from  beneath  the  sea, 

The  maiden  to  the  harper’s  knee  ! 

The  music  ceased;  the  applause  was  loud, 
The  pleased  musician  smiled  and  bowed ; 
The  wood-lire  clapped  its  hands  of  Hame, 
The  shadows  on  the  wainscot  stirred, 

And  from  the  harpsichord  there  came 
A ghostly  murmur  of  acclaim, 


A sound  like  that  sent  down  at  night 
By  birds  of  passage  in  their  flight, 
From  the  remotest  distance  heard. 

Then  silence  followed ; then  began 
A clamor  for  the  Landlord’s  tale,  — 
The  story  promised  them  of  old, 

They  said,  but  always  left  untold  ; 

And  he,  although  a bashful  man, 

And  all  his  courage  seemed  to  fail, 
Finding  excuse  of  no  avail, 

Yielded  ; and  thus  the  story  ran. 


TIIE  LANDLORD’S  TALE. 

PAUL  REVERB’S  UIDE. 


Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 

On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-five  ; 

Hardly  a man  is  now  alive 

Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  u If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 

Hang  a lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a signal  light, — 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea ; 

And  I on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 

Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm.” 

Then  he  said,  “ Good  night  ! ” and  with 
muffled  oar 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 

Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 

Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war ; 

A phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 
Across  the  moon  like  a prison  bar, 

And  a huge  black  bulk,  that  was  magnified 
By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street, 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 

Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 


380 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  the  Old  North 
Church, 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 

To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 

And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 
Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade,  — 

By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 

To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 

Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 

And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 

In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill. 
Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 
That  he  could  hear,  like  a sentinel’s  tread, 
The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 
Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  “ All  is  well ! ” 

A moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 


Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret 
dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead  ; 

For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 
On  a shadowy  something  far  away, 

Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay,  — 
A line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 
On  the  rising  tide,  like  a bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  lie  patted  his  horse’s  side, 

Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 

And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth ; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 

And  lo  ! as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry’s  height 
A glimmer,  and  then  a gleam  of  light ! 

He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns  ! 


HENR  Y WADS  WOR  TH  L ONGFKLL  0 IV. 


A hurry  of  hoofs  in  ;i  village  street, 

A shape  in  the  moonlight,  a bulk  in  the  dark, 
And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a 
spark 

Struck  out  by  a steed  Hying  fearless  and  fleet: 
That  was  all ! And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and 
the  light, 

The  fate  of  a nation  was  riding  that  night; 
And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in 
his  flight, 

Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep, 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and  deep, 
Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides  ; 

And  under  the  alders,  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 
He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 

That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 
Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and 
bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a spectral  glare, 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 


It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 
1 le  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

Anti  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 
And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 
Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 
Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  lull, 
Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 

Pierced  by  a British  musket-ball. 

You  know  the  rest.  In  the  books  you  have 
read, 

How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled, — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 

Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 

And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere ; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of 
alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm,  — 

A cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 

A voice  in  the  darkness,  a knock  at  the  door, 
And  a word  that  shall  echo  forevermore  ! 
For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 
Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 

In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need. 
The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 


INTERLUDE. 


The  Landlord  ended  thus  his  tale, 

Then  rising  took  down  from  its  nail 
The  sword  that  hung  there,  dim  with 
dust, 

And  cleaving  to  its  sheath  with  rust, 

And  said,  “ This  sword  was  in  the  fight.” 
The  Poet  seized  it,  and  exclaimed, 

“ It  is  the  sword  of  a good  knight, 

Though  homespun  was  his  coat-of-mail ; 
What  matter  if  it  be  not  named 
Joyeuse,  Colada,  Durindale, 


Excalibar,  or  Aroundight, 

Or  other  name  the  books  record? 
Your  ancestor,  who  bore  this  sword 
As  Colonel  of  the  Volunteers, 
Mounted  upon  his  old  gray  mare, 
Seen  here  and  there  and  everywhere, 
To  me  a grander  shape  appears 
Than  old  Sir  William,  or  what  not. 
Clinking  about  in  foreign  lands 
With  iron  gauntlets  on  his  hands, 
And  on  his  head  an  iron  pot ! ” 


382 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


All  laughed ; the  Landlord’s  face  grew  red 
As  his  escutcheon  on  the  wall ; 

He  could  not  comprehend  at  all 
The  drift  of  what  the  Poet  said  ; 

For  those  who  had  been  longest  dead 
W ere  always  greatest  in  his  eyes ; 

And  he  was  speechless  with  surprise 
To  see  Sir  William’s  plumed  head 
Brought  to  a level  with  the  rest, 

And  made  the  subject  of  a jest. 

And  this  perceiving,  to  appease 

The  Landlord’s  wrath,  the  others’  fears, 

The  Student  said,  with  careless  ease, 

“ The  ladies  and  the  cavaliers, 

The  arms,  the  loves,  the  courtesies, 

The  deeds  of  high  emprise,  I sing ! 

Thus  Ariosto  says,  in  words 

That  have  the  stately  stride  and  ring 


Of  armed  knights  and  clashing  swords. 

Now  listen  to  the  tale  I bring ; 

Listen  ! though  not  to  me  belong 
The  flowing  draperies  of  his  song, 

The  words  that  rouse,  the  voice  that  charms. 
The  Landlord’s  tale  was  one  of  arms, 

Only  a tale  of  love  is  mine, 

Blending  the  human  and  divine, 

A tale  of  the  Decameron,  told 
In  Palmieri’s  garden  old, 

By  Fiametta,  laurel-crowned, 

While  her  companions  lay  around, 

And  heard  the  intermingled  sound 
Of  airs  that  on  their  errands  sped, 

And  wild  birds  gossiping  overhead, 

And  lisp  of  leaves,  and  fountain’s  fall, 

And  her  own  voice  more  sweet  than  all. 
Telling  the  tale,  which,  wanting  these, 
Perchance  may  lose  its  power  to  please.” 


THE  STUDENT'S  TALE. 

THE  FALCON  OF  SER  FEDERIGO. 


One  summer  morning,  when  the  sun  was  hot, 
Weary  with  labor  in  his  garden-plot, 

On  a rude  bench  beneath  his  cottage  eaves, 
Ser  Federigo  sat  among  the  leaves 
Of  a huge  vine,  that,  with  its  arms  outspread, 
Hung  its  delicious  clusters  overhead. 

Below  him,  through  the  lovely  valley,  flowed 
The  river  Arno,  like  a winding  road, 

And  from  its  banks  were  lifted  high  in  air 
The  spires  and  roofs  of  Florence  called  the 
Fair  ; 

To  him  a marble  tomb,  that  rose  above 
His  wasted  fortunes  and  his  buried  love. 

For  there,  in  banquet  and  in  tournament, 

His  wealth  had  lavished  been,  his  substance 
spent, 

To  woo  and  lose,  since  ill  his  wooing  sped, 
Monna  Giovanna,  who  his  rival  wed, 

Yet  ever  in  his  fancy  reigned  supreme, 

The  ideal  woman  of  a young  man’s  dream. 

Then  he  withdrew,  in  poverty  and  pain, 

To  this  small  farm,  the  last  of  his  domain, 
His  only  comfort  and  his  only  care 


To  prune  his  vines,  and  plant  the  fig  and  pear; 
His  only  forester  and  only  guest 
His  falcon,  faithful  to  him,  when  the  rest, 
Whose  willing  hands  had  found  so  light  of 
yore 

The  brazen  knocker  of  his  palace  door, 

Had  now  no  strength  to  lift  the  wooden  latch, 
That  entrance  gave  beneath  a roof  of  thatch. 
Companion  of  his  solitary  ways, 

Purveyor  of  his  feasts  on  holidays, 

On  him  this  melancholy  man  bestowed 
The  love  with  which  his  nature  overflowed. 

And  so  the  empty-handed  years  went  round, 
Vacant,  though  voiceful  with  prophetic  sound, 
And  so,  that  summer  morn,  he  sat  and  mused 
With  folded,  patient  hands,  as  he  was  used, 
And  dreamily  before  his  half-closed  sight 
Floated  the  vision  of  his  lost  delight. 

Beside  him,  motionless,  the  drowsy  bird 
Dreamed  of  the  chase,  and  in  his  slumber 
heard 

The  sudden,  scythe-like  sweep  of  wings,  that 
dare 


HENR  Y WA  DS  WOR  1'H  L ON  GFRL  L 0 W. 


383 


The  headlong  plunge  thro’  eddying  gulfs  of 
air, 

Then,  starting  broad  awake  upon  his  perch, 
Tinkled  his  bells,  like  mass-bells  in  a church, 
And  looking  at  his  master,  seemed  to  say, 

“ Ser  Federigo,  shall  we  hunt  to-day?” 

Ser  Federigo  thought  not  of  the  chase  ; 

The  tender  vision  of  her  lovely  face. 

I will  not  say  he  seems  to  see,  he  sees 
In  the  leaf-shadows  of  the  trellises, 

Herself,  yet  not  herself ; a lovely  child 
With  Ho  wing  tresses,  and  eyes  wide  and  wild, 
Coming  undaunted  up  the  garden  walk, 

And  looking  not  at  him,  but  at  the  hawk. 

“ Beautiful  falcon  ! ” said  he,  “ would  that  I 
Might  hold  thee  on  my  wrist,  or  see  thee 
fly!” 

The  voice  was  hers,  and  made  strange  echoes 
start 

Through  all  the  haunted  chambers  of  his 
heart. 

As  an  jeolian  harp  through  gusty  doors 
Of  some  old  ruin  its  wild  music  pours. 

“ Who  is  thy  mother,  my  fair  boy  ? ” he  said, 
His  hand  laid  softly  on  that  shining  head. 

“ Monna  Giovanna.  Will  you  let  me  stay 
A little  while,  and  with  your  falcon  play? 
We  live  there,  just  beyond  your  garden  wall, 
In  the  great  house  behind  the  poplars  tall.” 

So  he  spake  on  ; and  Federigo  heard 
As  from  afar  each  softly  uttered  word, 

And  drifted  onward  through  the  golden  gleams 
And  shadows  of  the  misty  sea  of  dreams, 

As  mariners  becalmed  through  vapors  drift, 
And  feel  the  sea  beneath  them  sink  and  lift, 
And  hear  far  off  the  mournful  breakers  roar, 
And  voices  calling  faintly  from  the  shore ! 
Then  waking  from  his  pleasant  reveries, 

He  took  the  little  boy  upon  his  knees, 

And  told  him  stories  of  his  gallant  bird, 

Till  in  their  friendship  he  became  a third. 

Monna  Giovanna,  widowed  in  her  prime, 

Had  come  with  friends  to  pass  the  summer 
time 

In  her  grand  villa,  half-way  up  the  hill, 
O’erlooking  Florence,  but  retired  and  still ; 


With  iron  gates,  that  opened  through  long 
lines 

Of  sacred  ilex  and  centennial  pines, 

And  terraced  gardens,  and  broad  steps  of 
stone, 

And  sylvan  deities,  with  moss  o'ergrown, 
And  fountains  palpitating  in  the  heat, 

And  all  Val  d’Arno  stretched  beneath  its 
feet. 

Here  in  seclusion,  as  a widow  may, 

The  lovely  lady  whiled  the  hours  away, 
Pacino;  in  sable  robes  the  statued  hall, 

o 

Herself  the  stateliest  statue  among  all, 

And  seeing  more  and  more,  with  secret  joy, 
Her  husband  risen  and  living  in  her  boy, 
Till  the  lost  sense  of  life  returned  again, 

Not  as  delight,  but  as  relief  from  pain. 
Meanwhile  the  boy,  rejoicing  in  his  strength, 
Stormed  down  the  terraces  from  length  to 
length  ; 

The  screaming  peacock  chased  in  hot  pur- 
suit, 

And  climbed  the  garden  trellises  for  fruit. 
But  his  chief  pastime  was  to  watch  the  flight 
Of  a gerfalcon,  soaring  into  sight, 

Beyond  the  trees  that  fringed  the  garden 
wall, 

Then  downward  stooping  at  some  distant 
call ; 

And  as  he  gazed  full  often  wondered  he 
Who  might  the  master  of  the  falcon  be, 
Until  that  happy  morning,  when  lie  found 
Master  and  falcon  in  the  cottage  ground. 

And  now  a shadow  and  a terror  fell 
On  the  great  house,  as  if  a passing-bell 
Tolled  from  the  tower,  and  filled  each  spa- 
cious room 

With  secret  awe  and  preternatural  gloom ; 
The  petted  boy  grew  ill,  and  day  by  day 
Pined  with  mysterious  malady  away. 

The  mother’s  heart  would  not  be  comforted ; 
Her  darling  seemed  to  her  already  dead, 

And  often,  sitting  by  the  sufferer’s  side, 

“ What  can  I do  to  comfort  thee  ? ” she  cried. 
At  first  the  silent  lips  made  no  reply, 

But,  moved  at  length  by  her  importunate  cry 
“Give  me,”  he  answered,  with  imploring  tone, 
“ Ser  Federigo’s  falcon  for  my  own ! ” 

No  answer  could  the  astonished  mother  make 


384 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


How  could  she  ask,  e'en  for  her  darling’s 
sake. 

Such  favor  at  a luckless  lover’s  hand, 

Well  knowing  that  to  ask  was  to  command  ? 
Well  knowing,  what  all  falconers  confessed, 
In  all  the  land  that  falcon  was  the  best, 

The  master's  pride  and  passion  and  delight, 
And  the  sole  pursuivant  of  this  poor  knight. 
But  yet,  for  her  child’s  sake,  she  could  no 
less 

Than  give  assent,  to  soothe  his  restlessness, 
So  promised,  and  then  promising  to  keep 
Iler  promise  sacred,  saw  him  fall  asleep. 

The  morrow  was  a bright  September  morn  : 
The  earth  was  beautiful  as  if  new-born  ; 
There  was  that  nameless  splendor  everywhere, 
That  wild  exhilaration  in  the  air, 

Which  makes  the  passers  in  the  city  street 
Congratulate  each  other  as  they  meet. 

Two  lovely  ladies,  clothed  in  cloak  and  hood, 
Passed  through  the  garden  gate  into  the  wood, 


Under  the  lustrous  leaves,  and  through  the 
sheen 

Of  dewy  sunshine  showering  down  between. 

The  one,  close-hooded,  had  the  attractive  grace 

Which  sorrow  sometimes  lends  a woman’s  face; 

Her  dark  eves  moistened  with  the  mists  that 
roll 

From  the  gulf-stream  of  passion  in  the  soul  ; 

The  other  with  her  hood  thrown  back,  her 
hair 

Making  a golden  glory  in  the  air, 

Her  cheeks  suffused  with  an  auroral  blush, 

Her  young  heart  singing  louder  than  the 
thrush. 

So  walked,  that  morn,  through  mingled  light 
and  shade, 

Each  by  the  other's  presence  lovelier  made, 

Monna  Giovanna  and  her  bosom  friend, 

Intent  upon  their  errand  and  its  end. 

They  found  Ser  Federigo  at  his  toil, 

Like  banished  Adam,  delving  in  the  soil ; 


IlENR  Y IV A PS  WO R Til  L ONGFEL L 0 IV 


385 


And  when  he  looked  and  these  fair  women 
spied, 

The  garden  suddenly  was  glorified  ; 

1 1 is  long-lost  Eden  was  restored  again, 

And  the  strange  river  winding  through  the 
plain 

No  longer  was  the  Arno  to  his  eyes, 

But  the  Euphrates  watering  Paradise  ! 

Monna  Giovanna  raised  her  stately  head, 
And  with  fair  words  of  salutation  said : 
“Ser  Federigo,  we  come  here  as  friends, 
Hoping  in  this  to  make  some  poor  amends 
For  past  unkindness.  I who  ne’er  before 
Would  even  cross  the  threshold  of  your  door, 

I who  in  happier  days  such  pride  maintained, 
Refused  your  banquets,  and  your  gifts  dis- 
dained, 

This  morning  come,  a self-invited  guest, 

To  put  your  generous  nature  to  the  test, 
And  breakfast  with  you  under  your  own 
vine.” 

To  which  he  answered : “ Poor  desert  of 
mine, 

Not  your  unkindness  call  it,  for  if  aught 
Is  good  in  me  of  feeling  or  of  thought, 
From  you  it  comes,  and  this  last  grace  out- 
weighs 

All  sorrows,  all  regrets  of  other  days.” 

And  after  further  compliment  and  talk, 
Among  the  asters  in  the  garden  walk 
He  left  bis  guests  ; and  to  his  cottage  turned, 
And  as  he  entered  for  a moment  yearned 
For  the  lost  splendors  of  the  days  of  old, 
The  ruby  glass,  the  silver  and  the  gold, 
And  felt  how  piercing  is  the  sting  of  pride, 
By  want  embittered  and  intensified. 

He  looked  about  him  for  some  means  or 
way 

To  keep  this  unexpected  holiday  ; 

Searched  every  cupboard,  and  then  searched 
again, 

Summoned  the  maid,  who  came,  but  came  in 
vain  ; 

“ The  Signor  did  not  hunt  to-day,”  she  said, 
“ There ’s  nothing  in  the  house  but  wine  and 
bread.” 

Then  suddenly  the  drowsy  falcon  shook 
His  little  bells,  with  that  sagacious  look, 

49 


Which  said,  as  plain  as  language  to  the  ear, 
“ If  anything  is  wanting,  I am  here  ! ” 

Yes,  everything  is  wanting,  gallant  bird! 

The  master  seized  thee  without  further  word. 
Like  thine  own  lure,  he  whirled  thee  round  ; 
ah  me! 

The  pomp  and  flutter  of  brave  falconry, 

The  bells,  the  jesses,  the  bright  scarlet  hood, 
The  flight  and  the  pursuit  o’er  field  and  wood, 
All  these  forevermore  are  ended  now  ; 

No  longer  victor,  but  the  victim  thou ! 

Then  on  the  board  a snow-white  cloth  he 
spread, 

Laid  on  its  wooden  dish  the  loaf  of  bread, 
Brought  purple  grapes  with  autumn  sunshine 
hot, 

The  fragrant  peach,  the  juicy  bergamot ; 
Then  in  the  midst  a flask  of  wine  he  placed, 
And  with  autumnal  flowers  the  banquet  graced. 
Ser  Federigo,  would  not  these  suffice 
Without  thy  falcon  stuffed  with  cloves  and 
spice  ? 

When  all  was  ready,  and  the  courtly  dame 
With  her  companion  to  the  cottage  came, 
Upon  Ser  Federigo’s  brain  there  fell 
The  wild  enchantment  of  a magic  spell ! 

The  room  they  entered,  mean  and  low  and 
small, 

Was  changed  into  a sumptuous  banquet-hall, 
With  fanfares  by  aerial  trumpets  blown  ; 

The  rustic  chair  she  sat  on  was  a throne  ; 
He  ate  celestial  food,  and  a divine 
Flavor  was  given  to  liis  country  wine, 

And  the  poor  falcon,  fragrant  with  his  spice, 
A peacock  was,  or  bird  of  paradise  ! 

When  the  repast  was  ended,  they  arose 
And  passed  again  into  the  garden-close. 

Then  said  the  lady,  “ Far  too  well  I know, 
Remembering  still  the  days  of  long  ago, 
Though  you  betray  it  not,  with  what  surprise 
You  see  me  here  in  this  familiar  wise. 

You  have  no  children,  and  you  cannot  guess 
What  anguish,  what  unspeakable  distress 
A mother  feels,  whose  child  is  lying  ill, 

Nor  how  her  heart  anticipates  his  will. 

And  yet  for  this,  you  see  me  lay  aside 
All  womanly  reserve  and  check  of  pride, 


386 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


And  ask  the  thing  most  precious  in  your 
sight, 

Your  falcon,  your  sole  comfort  and  delight, 
Which  if  you  find  it  in  your  heart  to  give, 
My  poor,  unhappy  boy  perchance  may  live.” 

Ser  Federigo  listens,  and  replies, 

With  tears  of  love  and  pity  in  his  eyes : 

“ Alas,  dear  lady  ! there  can  be  no  task 
So  sweet  to  me,  as  giving  when  you  ask, 
One  little  hour  ago,  if  1 had  known 
This  wish  of  yours,  it  would  have  been  my 
own . 

But  thinking  in  what  manner  I could  best 
Do  honor  to  the  presence  of  my  guest, 

I deemed  that  nothing  worthier  could  be 
Than  what  most  dear  and  precious  was  to 
me ; 

And  so  my  gallant  falcon  breathed  his  last 
To  furnish  forth  this  morning  our  repast.” 

In  mute  contrition,  mingled  with  dismay, 
The  gentle  lady  turned  her  eyes  away, 
Grieving  that  he  such  sacrifice  should  make 
And  kill  his  falcon  for  a woman’s  sake, 

Yet  feeling  in  her  heart  a woman’s  pride, 


That  nothing  she  could  ask  for  was  denied  ; 
Then  took  her  leave,  and  passed  out  at  the 
gate 

With  footstep  slow  and  soul  disconsolate. 

Three  days  went  by,  and  lo ! a passing-bell 
Tolled  from  the  little  chapel  in  the  dell ; 

Ten  strokes  Ser  Federigo  heard,  and  said, 
Breathing  a prayer,  “ Alas  ! her  child  is  dead ! ” 
Three  months  went  by ; and  lo  ! a merrier 
chime 

Rang  from  the  chapel  bells  at  Cliristmas-time  ; 
The  cottage  was  deserted,  and  no  more 
Ser  Federigo  sat  beside  its  door, 

But  now,  with  servitors  to  do  his  will, 

In  the  grand  villa,  half-way  up  the  hill, 

Sat  at  the  Christmas  feast,  and  at  his  side 
Monna  Giovanna,  his  beloved  bride, 

Never  so  beautiful,  so  kind,  so  fair, 
Enthroned  once  more  in  the  old  rustic  chair 
High-perched  upon  the  back  of  which  there 
stood 

The  image  of  a falcon  carved  in  wood, 

And  underneath  the  inscription,  with  a date, 
“ All  things  come  round  to  him  who  will  but 
wait.” 


INTERLUDE. 


Soon  as  the  story  reached  its  end, 

One,  over  eager  to  commend, 

Crowned  it  with  injudicious  praise  ; 

And  then  the  voice  of  blame  found  vent, 
And  fanned  the  embers  of  dissent 
Into  a somewhat  lively  blaze. 

The  Theologian  shook  his  head  ; 

“ These  old  Italian  tales,”  he  said, 

“ From  the  much-praised  Decameron  down 
Through  all  the  rabble  of  the  rest, 

Are  either  trifling,  dull,  or  lewd  ; 

The  gossip  of  a neighborhood 
In  some  remote  provincial  town, 

A scandalous  chronicle  at  best ! 

They  seem  to  me  a stagnant  fen. 

Grown  rank  with  rushes  and  with  reeds, 
Where  a white  lily,  now  and  then, 


Blooms  in  the  midst  of  noxious  weeds 
And  deadly  nightshade  on  its  banks ! ” 

To  this  the  Student  straight  replied, 

“ For  the  white  lily,  many  thanks! 

One  should  not  say,  with  too  much 
pride, 

Fountain,  I will  not  drink  of  thee  ! 

Nor  were  it  grateful  to  forget 
That  from  these  reservoirs  and  tanks 
Even  imperial  Shakespeare  drew 
His  Moor  of  Venice,  and  the  Jew, 

And  Romeo  and  Juliet, 

And  many  a famous  comedy.” 

Then  a long  pause ; till  some  one  said, 

“ An  Angel  is  flying  overhead  ! ” 

At  these  words  spake  the  Spanish  Jew, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


387 


And  murmured  with  an  inward  breath  : 
“ God  grant,  if  what  you  say  be  true, 

It  may  not  be  the  Angel  of  Death!” 
And  then  another  pause;  and  then, 
Stroking  li is  beard,  he  said  again  : 
u This  brings  back  to  my  memory 


A story  in  the  Talmud  told, 

That  book  of  gems,  that  book  of  gold, 

Of  wonders  many  and  manifold, 

A tale  that  often  comes  to  me, 

And  fills  my  heart,  and  haunts  my  brain, 
And  never  wearies  nor  grows  old. 


THE  SPANISH  JEW’S  TALE. 

THE  LEGEND  OF  RABBI  BEN  LEVI. 


Rabbi  Ben  Levi,  on  the  Sabbath,  read 
A volume  of  the  Law,  in  which  it  said, 

No  man  shall  look  upon  my  face  and  live.” 
And  as  he  read,  he  prayed  that  God  would 
give 

His  faithful  servant  grace  with  mortal  eye 
To  look  upon  His  face  and  yet  not  die. 

Then  fell  a sudden  shadow  on  the  page, 
And,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  grown  dim  with  age. 


He  saw  the  Angel  of  Death  before  him  stand, 

Holding:  a naked  sword  in  his  right  hand. 

Rabbi  Ben  Levi  was  a righteous  man, 

Yet  through  his  veins  a chill  of  terror  ran. 

With  trembling  voice  he  said,  “ What  wilt 
thou  here  ? ” 

The  angel  answered,  “ Lo ! the  time  draws 
near 

When  thou  must  die  ; yet  first,  by  God’s 
decree, 


388 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Whate’er  thou  askest  shall  be  granted  thee."' 
Replied  the  Rabbi,  “ Let  these  living  eyes 
First  look  upon  my  place  in  Paradise.” 

Then  said  the  Angel,  “ Come  with  me  and 
look.” 

Rabbi  Ben  Levi  closed  the  sacred  book, 
And  rising,  and  uplifting  his  gray  head, 

“ Give  me  thy  sword,”  he  to  the  Angel  said, 

“ Lest  thou  sliouldst  fall  upon  me  by  the 
way.” 

The  angel  smiled  and  hastened  to  obey, 
Then  led  him  forth  to  the  Celestial  Town, 
And  set  him  on  the  wall,  whence,  gazing 
down, 

Rabbi  Ben  Levi,  with  his  living  eyes, 

Might  look  upon  his  place  in  Paradise. 

Then  straight  into  the  city  of  the  Lord 
The  Rabbi  leaped  with  the  Death-Angel’s 
sword, 

And  through  the  streets  there  swept  a sud- 
den breath 

Of  something  there  unknown,  which  men 
call  death. 

Meanwhile  the  Angel  stayed  without,  and 
cried, 

“ Come  back  ! ” To  which  the  Rabbi’s  voice 
replied, 

u No ! in  the  name  of  God,  whom  I adore, 

1 swear  that  hence  I will  depart  no  more ! ” 


INTE 

He  ended:  and  a kind  of  spell 
Upon  the  silent  listeners  fell. 

His  solemn  manner  and  his  words 
Had  touched  the  deep,  mysterious 
chords 

That  vibrate  in  each  human  breast 
Alike,  but  not  alike  confessed. 

The  spiritual  world  seemed  near  : 

And  close  above  them,  full  of  fear, 

Its  awful  adumbration  passed, 

A luminous  shadow,  vague  and  vast. 

They  almost  feared  to  look,  lest 
there, 

Embodied  from  the  impalpable  air, 


Then  all  the  Angels  cried,  “ O Holy  One, 

See  what  the  son  of  Levi  here  hath  done  ! 
The  kingdom  of  Heaven  he  takes  by  violence, 
And  in  Thy  name  refuses  to  go  hence  ! ” 

The  Lord  replied,  “ My  Angels,  be  not  wroth ; 
Did  e’er  the  son  of  Levi  break  his  oath  ? 

Let  him  remain  ; for  he  with  mortal  eye 
Shall  look  upon  my  face  and  yet  not  die.” 

Beyond  the  outer  wall  the  Angel  of  Death 
Heard  the  great  voice,  and  said,  with  panting 
breath, 

“ Give  back  the  sword,  and  let  me  go  my 
way.” 

Whereat  the  Rabbi  paused,  and  answered, 
“ Nay  ! 

Anguish  enough  already  hath  it  caused 
Among  the  sons  of  men.”  And  while  he 
paused 

He  heard  the  awful  mandate  of  the  Lord 
Resounding  through  the  air,  “ Give  back  the 
sword ! ” 

The  Rabbi  bowed  his  head  in  silent  prayer ; 
Then  said  he  to  the  dreadful  Angel,  “ Swear 
No  human  eye  shall  look  on  it  again  ; 

But  when  thou  takest  away  the  souls  of  men, 
Thyself  unseen,  and  with  an  unseen  sword, 
Thou  wilt  perform  the  bidding  of  the  Lord.” 
The  Angel  took  the  sword  again,  and  swore, 
And  walks  on  earth  unseen  forevermore. 


MJDE. 

They  might  behold  the  Angel  stand, 
Holding  the  sword  in  his  right  hand. 

At  last,  but  in  a voice  subdued, 

Not  to  disturb  their  dreamy  mood, 

Said  the  Sicilian  : “ While  you  spoke, 
Telling  your  legend  marvellous, 

Suddenly  in  my  memory  woke 

The  thought  of  one,  now  gone  from  ns,  — 

An  old  Abate,  meek  and  mild, 

My  friend  and  teacher,  when  a child, 
Who  sometimes  in  those  days  of  old 
The  legend  of  an  Angel  told, 

Which  ran,  as  I remember,  thus.” 


henr  y wa ds  won  th  l ongfel l o w. 


P>80 


THE  SICILIAN’S  TALE. 


KING  ROBERT  OP  SICTLY. 


U 


Robert  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Urbane 
Anil  Y almoncl,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Apparelled  in  magnificent  attire, 

With  retinue  of  many  a knight  and  squire, 
On  St.  John’s  eve,  at  vespers,  proudly  sat 
And  heard  the  priests  chant  the  Magnificat. 
And  as  he  listened,  o’er  and  o’er  again 
Repeated,  like  a burden  or  refrain, 

1 le  caught  the  words,  “ Deposuit  potentes 
De  sede,  et  exaltavit  humiles ; ” 

And  slowly  lifting  up  his  kingly  head 
He  to  a learned  clerk  beside  him  said, 

What  mean  these  words  ? ” The  clerk  made 
answer  meet, 


i*Pg3** 


“ He  has  put  down  the  mighty  from  their 
seat, 

And  has  exalted  them  of  low  degree.” 
Thereat  King  Robert  muttered  scornfully, 

“ ’T  is  well  that  such  seditious  words  are  sung 
Only  by  priests  and  in  the  Latin  tongue  ; 
For  unto  priests  and  people  be  it  known, 
There  is  no  power  can  push  me  from  my 
throne  ? ” 

And  leaning  back,  he  yawned  and  fell  asleep, 
Lulled  by  the  chant  monotonous  and  deep. 


When  he  awoke,  it  was  already  night ; 

The  church  was  empty,  and  there  was  no  light, 


390 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Save  where  the  lamps,  that  glimmered  few 
and  faint, 

Lighted  a little  space  before  some  saint. 

He  started  from  his  seat  and  gazed  around, 
But  saw  no  living  thing  and  heard  no  sound, 
lie  groped  towards  the  door,  but  it  was 
locked  ; 

He  cried  aloud,  and  listened,  and  then 
knocked, 

And  uttered  awful  threatenings  and  com- 
plaints, 

And  imprecations  upon  men  and  saints. 

The  sounds  reechoed  from  the  roof  and  walls 
As  if  dead  priests  were  laughing  in  their 
stalls. 

At  length  the  sexton,  hearing  from  without 
The  tumult  of  the  knocking  and  the  shout, 
And  thinking  thieves  were  in  the  house  of 
prayer, 

Came  with  his  lantern,  asking,  “ Who  is 
there  ? ” 

Half  choked  with  rage,  King  Robert  fiercely 
said, 

“ Open  : ’t  is  I,  the  King  ! Art  thou  afraid  ! ” 
The  frightened  sexton,  muttering,  with  a 
curse, 

“ This  is  some  drunken  vagabond,  or  worse  ! ” 
Turned  the  great  key  and  flung  the  portal 
wide  ; 

A man  rushed  by  him  at  a single  stride, 
Haggard,  half  naked,  without  hat  or  cloak, 
Who  neither  turned,  nor  looked  at  him,  nor 
spoke, 

But  leaped  into  the  blackness  of  the  night, 
And  vanished  like  a spectre  from  his  sight. 

Robert  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pojie  Urbane 
And  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Despoiled  of  his  magnificent  attire, 
Bareheaded,  breathless,  and  besprent  with 
mire, 

With  sense  of  wrong  and  outrage  desperate, 
Strode  on  and  thundered  at  the  palace  gate; 
Rushed  through  the  courtyard,  thrusting  in 
his  rage 

To  right  and  left  each  seneschal  and  page, 
And  hurried  up  the  broad  and  sounding 
stai  r, 

His  white  face  ghastly  in  the  torches’  glare. 


From  hall  to  hall  he  passed  with  breathless 
speed  ; 

Voices  and  cries  he  heard,  but  did  not  heed. 
Until  at  last  he  reached  the  banquet-room, 
Blazing  with  light,  and  breathing  with  perfume. 

There  on  the  dais  sat  another  king, 

Wearing  his  robes,  his  crown,  his  signet-ring. 
King  Robert’s  self  in  features,  form,  and  height, 
But  all  transfigured  with  angelic  light ! 

It  was  an  Angel ; and  his  presence  there 
With  a divine  effulgence  filled  the  air, 

An  exaltation,  piercing  the  disguise, 

Though  none  the  hidden  Angel  recognize. 

A moment  speechless,  motionless,  amazed, 

The  throneless  monarch  on  the  Angel  gazed, 
Who  met  his  look  of  anger  and  surprise 
With  the  divine  compassion  of  his  eyes ; 

Then  said,  “Who  art  thou?  and  why  com’st 
thou  here?” 

To  which  King  Robert  answered  with  a sneer, 
“I  am  the  King,  and  come  to  claim  my  own 
From  an  impostor,  who  usurps  my  throne  ! ” 
And  suddenly,  at  these  audacious  words, 

Up  sprang  the  angry  guests,  and  drew  their 
swords  ; 

The  Angel  answered,  with  unruffled  brow, 

“ Nay,  not  the  King,  but  the  King’s  Jester,  thou 
Henceforth  slialt  wear  the  bells  and  scalloped 
cape, 

And  for  thy  counsellor  shaft  lead  an  ape  ; 
Thou  slialt  obey  my  servants  when  they  call, 
And  wait  upon  my  henchmen  in  the  hall  ! ” 

Deaf  to  King  Robert’s  threats  and  cries  and 
prayers, 

They  thrust  him  from  the  hall  and  down  the 
stairs  ; 

A group  of  tittering  pages  ran  before, 

And  as  they  opened  wide  the  folding-door, 
His  heart  failed,  for  he  heard,  with  strange 
alarms, 

The  boisterous  laughter  of  the  men-at-arms, 
And  all  the  vaulted  chamber  roar  and  ring 
With  the  mock  plaudits  of  “ Long  live  the 
King ! ” 

Next  morning,  waking  with  the  day’s  first  beam, 
He  said  within  himself,  “It  was  a dream!” 


IIKNRT  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


391 


But  the  straw  rustled  as  he  turned  his  head, 
There  were  the  cap  and  bells  beside  Ins  bed, 
Around  him  rose  the  bare,  discolored  walls, 
Close  by,  the  steeds  were  champing  in  their 
stalls, 

And  in  the  corner,  a revolting  shape, 
Shivering  and  chattering  sat  the  wretched  ape. 
It  was  no  dream;  the  world  lie  loved  so  much 
Had  turned  to  dust  and  ashes  at  his  touch  ! 

Days  came  and  went ; and  now  returned  again 
To  Sicily  the  old  Saturnian  reign  ; 

Under  the  Angel’s  governance  benign 
The  happy  island  danced  with  corn  and  wine, 
And  deep  within  the  mountain’s  burning 
breast 

Enceladus,  the  giant,  was  at  rest. 

Meanwhile  King  Robert  yielded  to  his  fate, 


Sullen  and  silent  and  disconsolate. 

Dressed  in  the  motley  garb  that  Jesters  wear, 
With  look  bewildered  and  a vacant  stare, 
Close  shaven  above  the  ears,  as  monks  are 
shorn, 

By  courtiers  mocked,  by  pages  laughed  to 
scorn, 

Ilis  only  friend  the  ape,  his  only  food 
What  others  left,  — he  still  was  unsubdued. 
And  when  the  Angel  met  him  on  his  way, 
And  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest,  would  say, 
Sternly,  though  tenderly,  that  he  might  feel 
The  velvet  scabbard  held  a sword  of  steel, 
“Art  thou  the  King?”  the  passion  of  his  woe 
Burst  from  him  in  resistless  overflow, 

And,  lifting  high  his  forehead,  he  would  fling 
The  haughty  answer  back,  “ I am,  I am  the 
King ! ” 


Almost  three  years  were  ended;  when  there 
came 

Ambassadors  of  great  repute  and  name 
From  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 

Unto  King  Robert,  saying  that  Pope  Urbane 
By  letter  summoned  them  forthwith  to  come 
On  Holy  Thursday  to  his  city  of  Rome. 

The  Angel  with  great  joy  received  his  guests, 
And  gave  them  presents  of  embroidered  vests, 


392 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


And  velvet  mantles  with  rich  ermine  lined, 
And  rings  and  jewels  of  the  rarest  kind. 
Then  he  departed  with  them  o’er  the  sea 
Into  the  lovely  land  of  Italy, 

Whose  loveliness  was  more  resplendent  made 
By  the  mere  passing  of  that  cavalcade, 

With  plumes,  and  cloaks,  and  housings,  and 
the  stir 

Of  jewelled  bridle  and  of  golden  spur. 

And  lo ! among  the  menials,  in  mock  state, 
Upon  a piebald  steed,  with  shambling  gait, 
His  cloak  of  fox-tails  flapping  in  the  wind, 
The  solemn  ape  demurely  perched  behind, 
King  Robert  rode,  making  huge  merriment 
In  all  the  country  towns  through  which  they 
went. 

The  Pope  received  them  with  great  pomp  and 
blare 

Of  bannered  trumpets,  on  Saint  Peter’s  square, 
Giving  his  benediction  and  embrace, 

Fervent,  and  full  of  apostolic  grace. 

While  with  congratulations  and  with  prayers 
He  entertained  the  Angel  unawares, 

Robert,  the  Jester,  bursting  through  the  crowd, 
Into  their  presence  rushed,  and  cried  aloud, 

“ I am  the  King ! Look,  and  behold  in  me 
Robert,  your  brother,  King  of  Sicily ! 

This  man,  who  wears  my  semblance  to  your 
eyes, 

Is  an  impostor  in  a king’s  disguise. 

I)o  you  not  know  me  ? does  no  voice  within 
Answer  my  cry,  and  say  we  are  akin?” 

The  Pope  in  silence,  but  with  troubled  mien, 
Gazed  at  the  Angel's  countenance  serene ; 
The  Emperor,  laughing,  said,  “It  is  strange 
sport 

To  keep  a madman  for  thy  Fool  at  court ! ” 
And  the  poor,  baffled  Jester  in  disgrace 
Was  hustled  back  among  the  populace. 

In  solemn  state  the  Holy  Week  went  by, 
And  Easter  Sunday  gleamed  upon  the  sky ; 
The  presence  of  the  Angel,  with  its  light, 
Before  the  sun  rose,  made  the  city  bright, 
And  with  new  fervor  filled  the  hearts  of  men, 
Who  felt  that  Christ  indeed  had  risen  again. 
Even  the  Jester,  on  his  bed  of  straw, 

With  haggard  eyes  the  unwonted  splendor  saw, 
He  felt  within  a power  unfelt  before, 


And,  kneeling  humbly  on  his  chamber  floor, 
He  heard  the  rushing  garments  of  the  Lord 
Sweep  through  the  silent  air,  ascending  heav- 
enward. 

And  now  the  visit  ending,  and  once  more 
Valmond  returning  to  the  Danube’s  shore, 
Homeward  the  Angel  journeyed,  and  again 
The  land  was  made  resplendent  with  his  train, 
Flashing  along  the  towns  of  Italy 
Unto  Salerno,  and  from  thence  by  sea. 

And  when  once  more  within  Palermo’s  wall, 
And,  seated  on  the  throne  in  his  great  hall, 
He  heard  the  Angelus  from  convent  towers, 
As  if  the  better  world  conversed  with  ours, 
He  beckoned  to  King  Robert  to  draw  niglier, 
And  with  a gesture  bade  the  rest  retire ; 
And  when  they  were  alone,  the  Angel  said, 
“Art  thou  the  King?”  Then,  bowing  down 
his  head, 

King  Robert  crossed  both  hands  upon  his 
breast, 

And  meekly  answered  him  : “ Thou  knowest 
best ! 

My  sins  as  scarlet  are  ; let  me  go  hence, 

And  in  some  cloister’s  school  of  jxmitence, 
Across  those  stones,  that  pave  the  way  to 
heaven, 

Walk  barefoot,  till  my  guilty  soul  be  shriven ! ” 

The  Angel  smiled,  and  from  his  radiant  face 
A holy  light  illumined  all  the  place, 

And  through  the  open  window,  loud  and  clear, 
They  heard  the  monks  chant  in  the  chapel 
near, 

Above  the  stir  and  tumult  of  the  street: 

“ He  has  put  down  the  mighty  from  their  seat, 
And  has  exalted  them  of  low  degree ! ” 

And  through  the  chant  a second  melody 
Rose  like  the  throbbing  of  a single  string: 

“ I am  an  Angel,  and  thou  art  the  King ! ” 

King  Robert,  who  was  standing  near  the 
throne, 

Lifted  his  eyes,  and  lo  ! he  was  alone  ! 

But  all  apparelled  as  in  days  of  old, 

With  ermined  mantle  and  with  cloth  of  gold; 
And  when  his  courtiers  came,  they  found  him 
there 

Kneeling  upon  the  floor,  absorbed  in  silent 
prayer. 


HENR  Y IV A DS  IVOR  Tl!  /,  ON  GFEL  L 0 II 


393 


INTERLUDE. 


And  then  the  blue-eyed  Norseman  told 
A Saga  of  the  days  of  old. 

“There  is,"  said  he,  “a  wondrous 
book 

Of  Legends  in  the  old  Norse  tongue, 
Of  the  dead  kings  of  Norroway, — 
Legends  that  once  were  told  or  sung 
In  many  a smoky  fireside  nook 
Of  Iceland,  in  the  ancient  day, 

By  wandering  Saga-man  or  Scald ; 

‘ Heimskringla  ’ is  the  volume  called ; 
And  he  who  looks  may  find  therein 
The  story  that  I now  begin.” 


And  in  each  pause  the  story  made 
Upon  his  violin  he  played, 

As  an  appropriate  interlude, 

Fragments  of  old  Norwegian  tunes 
That  bound  in  one  the  separate  runes, 
And  held  the  mind  in  perfect  mood, 
Entwining  and  encircling  all 
The  strange  and  antiquated  rhymes 
With  melodies  of  olden  times ; 

As  over  some  half-ruined  wall, 
Disjointed  and  about  to  fall, 

Fresh  woodbines  climb  and  interlace, 
And  keep  the  loosened  stones  in  place. 


THE  MUSICIAN'S  TALE. 

THE  SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF. 

I. 

THE  CHALLENGE  OF  THOR. 


394 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


I am  the  God  Thor, 

I am  the  War  God, 

I am  the  Thunderer  ! 

Here  in  my  Northland, 

My  fastness  and  fortress, 
Reign  I forever  ! 

Here  amid  icebergs 
Rule  I the  nations  ; 

This  is  my  hammer, 

Miolner  the  mighty  ; 

Giants  and  sorcerers 
Cannot  withstand  it ! 

These  are  the  gauntlets 
Wherewith  I wield  it, 

And  hurl  it  afar  off  ; 

This  is  my  girdle  ; 
Whenever  1 brace  it, 
Strength  is  redoubled ! 

The  light  thou  beholdest 
Stream  through  the  heavens, 
In  flashes  of  crimson, 


Is  but  my  red  beard 
Blown  by  the  niglit-wind, 
Affrighting  the  nations ! 

Jove  is  my  brother  ; 

Mine  eyes  are  the  lightning; 
The  wheels  of  my  chariot 
Roll  in  the  thunder, 

The  blows  of  my  hammer 
Ring  in  the  earthquake  ! 

Force  rules  the  world  still, 
Has  ruled  it,  shall  rule  it ; 
Meekness  is  weakness, 
Strength  is  triumphant, 

Over  the  whole  earth 
Still  is  it  Thor’s-Day  ! 

Thou  art  a God  too, 

O Galilean  ! 

And  thus  single-handed 
Unto  the  combat, 

Gauntlet  or  Gospel, 

Here  I defy  tliee  ! 


II. 

KING  OI.AF’S  RETURN. 

To  his  thoughts  the  sacred  name 
Of  his  mother  Astrid  came, 

And  the  tale  she  oft  had  told 
Of  her  flight  by  secret  passes 
Through  the  mountains  and  morasses, 
To  the  home  of  Hakon  old. 


And  King  Olaf  heard  the  cry, 

Saw  the  red  light  in  the  sky, 

Laid  his  hand  upon  his  sword, 

As  he  leaned  upon  the  railing, 

And  his  ships  went  sailing,  sailing 
Northward  into  Drontheim  fiord, 

There  he  stood  as  one  who  dreamed  ; 
And  the  red  light  glanced  and  gleamed 
On  the  armor  that  he  wore ; 

And  he  shouted,  as  the  rifted 
Streamers  o’er  him  shook  and  shifted, 

“ I accept  thy  challenge,  Thor  ! ” 

To  avenge  his  father  slain, 

And  reconquer  realm  and  reign, 

Came  the  youthful  Olaf  home, 
Through  the  midnight  sailing,  sailing, 
Listening  to  the  wild  wind’s  wailing, 
And  the  dashing  of  the  foam. 


Then  strange  memories  crowded  back 
Of  Queen  Gunhild's  wrath  and  wrack, 
And  a hurried  flight  by  sea ; 

Of  grim  Vikings,  and  the  rapture 
Of  the  sea-fight,  and  the  capture, 

And  the  life  of  slavery. 

How  a stranger  watched  his  face 
In  the  Estlionian  market-place, 

Scanned  his  features  one  by  one, 
Saying,  “We  should  know  each  other; 
I am  Sigurd,  Astrid’s  brother, 

Thou  art  Olaf,  Astrid’s  son ! ” 


HENR  T IV A DS  IVOR  77/  L OR  OF  ELL  0 W. 


Then  ns  Queen  Allogia’s  page, 

Old  in  honors,  young  in  age, 

Chief  of  all  her  men-at-arms  ; 

Till  vague  whispers,  and  mysterious, 
Reached  King  Valdemar,  the  imperious, 
Filling  him  with  strange  alarms. 

Then  his  cruisings  o’er  the  seas, 
Westward  to  the  Hebrides 
And  to  Scilly’s  rocky  shore  ; 

And  the  hermit's  cavern  dismal, 

Christ’s  great  name  and  rites  baptismal 
In  the  ocean’s  rush  and  roar. 

All  these  thoughts  of  love  and  sti’ife 
Glimmered  through  his  lurid  life, 

As  the  stars’  intenser  light 
Through  the  red  flames  o'er  him  trailing, 
As  his  ships  went  sailing,  sailing 
Northward  in  the  summer  night. 

Trained  for  either  camp  or  court, 

Skilful  in  each  manly  sport, 

Young  and  beautiful  and  tall ; 

Art  of  warfare,  craft  of  chases, 
Swimming,  skating,  snow-shoe  races, 
Excellent  alike  in  all. 


When  at  sea,  with  all  his  rowers, 
lie  along  the  bending  oars 
Outside  of  his  ship  could  run. 

He  the  Smalsor  Horn  ascended, 

And  his  shining  shield  suspended 
On  its  summit,  like  a sun. 

On  the  ship-rails  he  could  stand, 
Wield  his  sword  with  either  hand, 
And  at  once  two  javelins  throw ; 

At  all  feasts  where  ale  was  strongest 
Sat  the  merry  monarch  longest, 

First  to  come  and  last  to  go. 

Norway  never  yet  had  seen 
One  so  beautiful  of  mien, 

One  so  royal  in  attire, 

When  in  arms  completely  furnished, 
Harness  gold-inlaid  and  burnished, 
Mantle  like  a flame  of  fire. 

Thus  came  Olaf  to  his  own, 

When  upon  the  night-wind  blown 
Passed  that  cry  along  the  shore  ; 
And  he  answered,  while  the  rifted 
Streamers  o’er  him  shook  and  shifted, 
“ I accept  thy  challenge,  Thor  ! ” 


396 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


III. 


THORA  OK  RIMOL. 


“ Thora  of  Riniol  ! hide  me  ! hide  me  ! 
Danger  and  shame  and  death  betide  me  ! 
For  Olaf  the  King  is  hunting  me  down 
Through  field  and  forest,  through  thorp  and 
town  ! ” 

Thus  cried  Jarl  Hakon 
To  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 


So  Hakon  Jarl  and  his  base  thrall  Karker 
Crouched  in  the  cave,  than  a dungeon 
darker, 

As  Olaf  came  riding,  with  men  in  mail, 
Through  the  forest  roads  into  Orkadale, 
Demanding  Jarl  Hakon 
Of  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 


“ Hakon  Jarl ! for  the  love  I bear  thee 
Neither  shall  shame  nor  death  come  near 
thee  ! 

But  the  hiding-place  wherein  thou  must  lie 
Is  the  cave  underneath  the  swine  in  the  sty/’ 
Thus  to  Jarl  Hakon 
Said  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 


“ Rich  and  honored  shall  be  whoever 
The  head  of  Hakon  Jarl  shall  dissever  ! ” 
Hakon  heard  him,  and  Karker  the  slave, 
Through  the  breathing-holes  of  the  darksome 
cave. 

Alone  in  her  chamber 

Wept  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 


Said  Karker,  the  crafty,  “ I will  not  slay  thee  ! 
For  all  the  king’s  gold  I will  never  betray 
thee ! ” 

“ Then  why  dost  thou  turn  so  pale,  O churl, 


And  then  again  black  as  the  earth?”  said 
the  Earl. 

More  pale  and  more  faithful 
Was  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 


henr  y wads  won  nr  l on g full  o w. 


307 


From  a dream  in  the  night  the  thrall  started, 
saying, 

“ Round  my  neck  a gold  ring  King  Olaf  was 
laying ! ” 

And  Hakon  answered,  “Beware  of  the  king! 

He  will  lay  round  thy  neck  a blood-red  ring.” 
At  the  ring  on  her  finger 
Gazed  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

At  daybreak  slept  Hakon,  with  sorrows  en- 
cumbered, 

But  screamed  and  drew  up  his  feet  as  he 
slumbered ; 


The  thrall  in  the  darkness  plunged  with  his 
knife, 

And  the  Earl  awakened  no  more  in  this  life. 
But  wakeful  and  weeping 
Sat  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

At  Nidarholm  the  priests  are  all  singing, 
Two  ghastly  heads  on  the  gibbet  are  swinging ; 
One  is  Jarl  Hakon’s  and  one  is  his  thrall’s, 
And  the  people  are  shouting  from  windows 
and  Avails  ; 

While  alone  in  her  chamber 
Savooiis  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 


TV. 


QUEEN  SIGRID 

Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty  sat  proud  and  aloft 
In  her  chamber,  that  looked  over  meadow 
and  croft. 

Heart’s  dearest, 

Why  dost  thou  sorrow  so  ? 

The  floor  with  tassels  of  fir  Avas  besprent, 
Filling  the  room  AArith  their  fragrant  scent. 

She  heard  the  birds  sing,  she  suav  the  sun 
shine, 

The  air  of  summer  Avas  sAveeter  than  Avine. 

Like  a SAVord  without  scabbard  the  bright 
river  lay 

BetAAreen  her  own  kingdom  and  Norroway. 

But  Olaf  the  King  had  sued  for  her  hand, 

The  SAVord  would  be  sheathed,  the  river  be 
spanned. 

Her  maidens  Avere  seated  around  her  knee, 
Working  bright  figures  in  tapestry. 

And  one  Avas  singing  the  ancient  rune 
Of  Brynhilda’s  love  and  the  Avrath  of  Gudrun. 

And  through  it,  and  round  it,  and  over  it  all 
Sounded  incessant  the  waterfall. 

The  Queen  in  her  hand  held  a ring  of  gold, 
From  the  door  of  Lady’s  Temple  old. 


THE  HAUGHTY. 

King  Olaf  had  sent  her  this  wedding  gift, 

But  her  thoughts  as  arrows  Avere  keen  and 
SAvift. 

She  had  given  the  ring  to  her  goldsmiths  twain, 

Who  smiled,  as  they  handed  it  back  again. 

And  Sigrid  the  Queen,  in  her  haughty  AAray, 

Said,  “Why  do  you  smile,  my  goldsmiths,  say?” 

And  they  answered  : “ O Queen  ! if  the  truth 
must  be  told, 

The  ring  is  of  copper,  and  not  of  gold  ! ” 

The  lightning  flashed  o'er  her  forehead  and 
cheek. 

She  only  murmured,  she  did  not  speak : 

“If  in  his  gifts  he  can  faithless  be, 

There  will  be  no  gold  in  his  love  to  me.” 

A footstep  was  heard  on  the  outer  stair. 

And  in  strode  King  Olaf  Avith  royal  air. 

He  kissed  the  Queen’s  hand,  and  he  Avliispered 
of  love, 

And  swore  to  be  true  as  the  stars  are  above. 

But  she  smiled  Avith  contempt  as  she  ansAvered : 
“ O King, 

Will  you  swear  it,  as  Odin  once  swore,  on 
the  ring  ? ” 


398 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


And  the  King:  “Oh  speak  not  of  Odin  to  me, 

The  wife  of  King  Olaf  a Christian  must  be.” 

Looking  straight  at  the  King,  with  her  level 
brows, 

She  said,  “I  keep  true  to  my  faith  and  my 
vows.” 

Then  the  face  of  King  Olaf  was  darkened 
with  gloom, 

He  rose  in  his  anger  and  strode  through  the 
room. 

Why,  then,  should  I care  to  have  thee  ? ” he 
said,  — 

A faded  old  woman,  a heathenish  jade  ! ” 


His  zeal  was  stronger  than  fear  or  love, 

And  he  struck  the  Queen  in  the  face  with 
his  glove. 

Then  forth  from  the  chamber  in  anger  he 
fled, 

And  the  wooden  stairway  shook  with  his 
tread. 

Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty  said  under  her 
breath, 

This  insult,  King  Olaf,  shall  be  thy 
death  ! ” 

Heart’s  dearest, 

Why  dost  thou  sorrow  so  ? 


V. 

THE  SKERRY  OF  SHRIEKS. 


Now  from  all  King  Olaf’s  farms 
His  men-at-arms 

Gathered  on  the  Eve  of  Easter ; 
To  his  house  at  Angvalds-ness 
Fast  they  press, 

Drinking  with  the  royal  feaster. 


Loudly  through  the  wide-flung  door 
Came  the  roar 

Of  the  sea  upon  the  Skerry ; 

And  its  thunder  loud  and  near 
Reached  the  ear, 

Mingling  with  their  voices  merry. 


HENIi  Y WADS  WOR TH  L ON G FELL  0 W. 


390 


“Hark!”  said  Olaf  to  his  Scald, 

Half  red  the  Bald, 

“ Listen  to  that  song,  and  learn  it ! 

Half  my  kingdom  would  1 give, 

As  I live, 

If  by  such  songs  you  would  earn  it! 

For  of  all  the  runes  and  rhymes 
Of  all  times, 

Best  1 like  the  ocean’s  dirges, 

When  the  old  harper  heaves  and  rocks, 

11  is  hoary  locks 

Flowing  and  flashing  in  the  surges  ! ” 

Halfred  answered  : “ I am  called 
The  Unappalled  ! 

Nothing  hinders  me  or  daunts  me. 

Hearken  to  me,  then,  O King, 

While  1 sing 

The  great  Ocean  Song  that  haunts  me.” 

“ 1 will  hear  your  song  sublime 
Some  other  time,” 

Says  the  drowsy  monarch,  yawning, 

And  retires  ; each  laughing  guest 
Applauds  the  jest  ; 

Then  they  sleep  till  day  is  dawning. 

Pacing  up  and  down  the  yard, 

King  Olaf’s  guard 
Saw  the  sea-mist  slowly  creeping 
O’er  the  sands,  and  up  the  hill, 

Gathering  still 

Round  the  house  where  they  were  sleeping. 

It  was  not  the  fog  he  saw, 

Nor  misty  flaw, 

That  above  the  landscape  brooded : 

It  was  Eyvind  Kallda’s  crew 
Of  warlocks  blue 

With  their  caps  of  darkness  hooded  ! 

Round  and  round  the  house  they  go, 
Weaving  slow 
Magic  circles  to  encumber 
And  imprison  in  their  ring 
Olaf  the  King, 

As  he  helpless  lies  in  slumber. 


Then  athwart  the  vapors  dun 
The  Easter  sun 

Streamed  with  one  broad  track  of  splendor ! 
In  their  real  forms  appeared 
The  warlocks  weird, 

Awful  as  the  Witch  of  Endor. 

Blinded  by  the  light  that  glared, 

They  groped  and  stared, 

Round  about  with  steps  unsteady ; 

From  li  is  window  Olaf  gazed, 

And,  amazed, 

“ Who  are  these  strange  people  ? ” said  he. 

“ Eyvind  Kallda  and  his  men  ! ” 

Answered  then 

From  the  yard  a sturdy  farmer; 

While  the  men-at-arms  apace 
Frilled  the  place, 

Busily  buckling  on  their  armor. 

From  the  gates  they  sallied  forth, 

South  and  north, 

Scoured  the  island  coast  around  them, 
Seizing  all  the  warlock  band, 

Foot  and  hand 

On  the  Skerry’s  rocks  they  bound  them. 

And  at  eve  the  king  again 
Called  his  train, 

And,  with  all  the  candles  burning, 

Silent  sat  and  heard  once  more 
The  sullen  roar 
Of  the  ocean  tides  returning. 

Shrieks  and  cries  of  wild  despair 
Filled  the  air, 

Growing  fainter  as  they  listened  ; 

Then  the  bursting  surge  alone 
Sounded  on  ; — 

Thus  the  sorcerers  were  christened ! 

“Sing,  O Scald,  your  song  sublime, 

Your  ocean-rhyme,” 

Cried  King  Olaf:  “it  will  cheer  me!’' 
Said  the  Scald,  with  pallid  cheeks, 

“ The  Skerry  of  Shrieks 
Sings  too  loud  for  you  to  hear  me  ! 


400 


THE  POETICAL  WO  11  ICE  OF 


VI. 

THE  WRAITII  OF  ODIN. 


The  guests  were  loud,  the  ale  was  strong, 
King  Olaf  feasted  late  and  lon<r : 

O O 5 

The  hoary  Scalds  together  sang  ; 

O'erhead  the  smoky  rafters  rang. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Foa;elsanff. 

O O 


The  door  swung  wide,  with  creak  and  din 
A blast  of  cold  night-air  came  in, 

And  on  the  threshold  shivering  stood 
A one-eyed  guest,  with  cloak  and  hood. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsane;. 

o o 


The  King  exclaimed,  “ O graybeard  pale ! 
Come  warm  thee  with  this  cup  of  ale.” 
The  foaming  draught  the  old  man  quaffed, 
The  noisy  guests  looked  on  and  laughed. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsaim. 

O O 


Then  spake  the  King:  “Be  not  afraid: 
Sit  here  by  me.”  The  guest  obeyed. 
And,  seated  at  the  table,  told 
Tales  of  the  sea,  and  Sagas  old. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 


HENR  Y WA  DS  WOR  TH  L ON G FELL  0 IV. 


401 


And  ever,  when  the  tale  was  o’er, 

The  King  demanded  yet  one  more  ; 

Till  Sigurd  the  Bishop  smiling  said, 

“ ’Tis  late,  O King,  and  time  for  bed.” 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  King  retired ; the  stranger  guest 
Followed  and  entered  with  the  rest ; 

The  lights  were  out,  the  pages  gone, 

But  still  the  garrulous  guest  spake  on. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

As  one  who  from  a volume  reads, 

He  spake  of  heroes  and  their  deeds, 

Of  lands  and  cities  he  had  seen, 

And  stormy  gulfs  that  tossed  between. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

Then  from  his  lips  in  music  rolled 
The  Havamal  of  Odin  old, 

With  sounds  mysterious  as  the  roar 
Of  billows  on  a distant  shore. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

“ Do  we  not  learn  from  runes  and  rhymes 
Made  by  the  gods  in  elder  times, 


And  do  not  still  the  great  Scalds  teach 
That  silence  better  is  than  speech?” 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

Smiling  at  this,  the  King  replied, 

“ Thy  lore  is  by  thy  tongue  belied ; 

For  never  was  I so  enthralled 
Either  by  Saga-man  or  Scald.” 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  Bishop  said,  “ Late  hours  we  keep  ! 
Night  wanes,  O King!  ’tis  time  for  sleep! 
Then  slept  the  King,  and  when  he  woke 
The  guest  was  gone,  the  morning  broke. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

Tliey  found  the  doors  securely  barred, 
They  found  the  watch-dog  in  the  yard, 
There  was  no  footprint  in  the  grass, 

And  none  had  seen  the  stranger  pass. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

King  Olaf  crossed  himself  and  said  : 

“ I know  that  Odin  the  Great  is  dead ; 
Sure  is  the  triumph  of  our  Faith, 

The  one-eyed  stranger  was  his  wraith.” 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 


VII. 

IRON-BEARD. 


Clap  the  King,  one  summer  morn, 

Blew  a blast  on  his  bugle-horn, 

Sending  his  signal  through  the  land  of  Dront- 
heim. 

And  to  the  Hus-Ting  held  at  Mere 
Gathered  the  farmers  far  and  near, 

With  their  war  weapons  ready  to  confront  him. 

Ploughing  under  the  morning  star, 

Old  Iron-Beard  in  Yriar 
Heard  the  summons,  chuckling  with  a low 
laugh. 

He  wiped  the  sweat-drops  from  his  brow, 
Unharnessed  his  horses  from  the  plough, 
And  clattering  came  on  horseback  to  King 
Olaf. 


He  was  the  clmrliest  of  the  churls ; 
Little  he  cared  for  king  or  earls ; 

Bitter  as  home-brewed  ale  were  his  foaming 
passions. 

Hodden-gray  was  the  garb  he  wore, 

And  by  the  Hammer  of  Thor  he  swore ; 
He  hated  the  narrow  town,  and  all  its  fashions. 

But  he  loved  the  freedom  of  his  farm, 
His  ale  at  night,  by  the  fireside  warm, 
Gudrun  his  daughter,  with  her  flaxen  tresses. 

He  loved  his  horses  and  his  herds, 

The  smell  of  the  earth,  and  the  song  of 
birds, 

His  well-filled  barns,  his  brook  with  its  water- 


51 


cresses. 


402 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Huge  and  cumbersome  was  his  frame  ; 
His  beard,  from  which  he  took  his  name, 
Frosty  and  fierce,  like  that  of  Hymer  the 
Giant. 

So  at  the  Hus-Ting  he  appeared, 

The  farmer  of  Yriar,  Iron-Beard, 

On  horseback,  in  an  attitude  defiant. 

And  to  King  Olaf  he  cried  aloud, 

Out  of  the  middle  of  the  crowd, 

That  tossed  about  him  like  a stormy  ocean : 

“ Such  sacrifices  shalt  thou  bring ; 

To  Odin  and  to  Thor,  O King, 

As  other  kings  have  done  in  their  devotion  ! ” 

King  Olaf  answered : “ I command 
This  land  to  be  a Christian  land  ; 

Here  is  my  Bishop  who  the  folk  baptizes  ! 

“ But  if  you  ask  me  to  restore 
Your  sacrifices,  stained  with  gore, 

Then  will  I offer  human  sacrifices  ! 

“ Not  slaves  and  peasants  shall  they  be, 
But  men  of  note  and  high  degree, 

Such  men  as  Orm  of  Lyra  and  Kar  of  Gry- 
ting  ! ” 

Then  to  their  Temple  strode  he  in, 

And  loud  behind  him  heard  the  din 
Of  his  men-at-arms  and  the  peasants  fiercely 
fighting. 


There  in  the  Temple,  carved  in  wood, 
The  image  of  great  Odin  stood, 

And  other  gods,  with  Thor  supreme  among 
them. 

King  Olaf  smote  them  with  the  blade 
Of  his  huge  war-axe,  gold  inlaid, 

And  downward  shattered  to  the  pavement 
flung  them. 

At  the  same  moment  rose  without, 

From  the  contending  crowd,  a shout, 

A mingled  sound  of  triumph  and  of  wailing. 

And  there  upon  the  trampled  plain 
The  farmer  Iron-Beard  lay  slain, 

Midway  between  the  assailed  and  the  assailing. 

King  Olaf  from  the  doorway  spoke  : 

“ Choose  ye  between  two  things,  my  folk, 
To  be  baptized  or  given  up  to  slaughter  ! ” 

And  seeing  their  leader  stark  and  dead, 
The  people  with  a murmur  said, 

“ O King,  baptize  us  with  thy  holy  water ; ” 

So  all  the  Drontheim  land  became 
A Christian  land  in  name  and  fame, 

In  the  old  gods  no  more  believing  and  trusting. 

And  as  a blood-atonement,  soon 
King  Olaf  wed  the  fair  Gudrun ; 

And  thus  in  peace  ended  the  Drontheim  Hus- 
Ting  ! 


VIII. 

GUDRUN. 


On  King  Olaf’s  bridal  night 
Shines  the  moon  with  tender  light, 
And  across  the  chamber  streams 
Its  tide  of  dreams. 

At  the  fatal  midnight  hour, 

When  all  evil  things  have  power, 
In  the  glimmer  of  the  moon 
Stands  Gudrun. 


Close  against  her  heaving  breast, 
Something  in  her  hand  is  pressed; 
Like  an  icicle,  its  sheen 
Is  cold  and  keen. 

On  the  cairn  are  fixed  her  eyes 
Where  her  murdered  father  lies, 
And  a voice  remote  and  drear 
She  seems  to  hear. 


HEN  It  Y IV A DS  WOIi  TH  L ON  OF  EL  L 0 H 


403 


What  a bridal  night  is  this  ! 

Cold  will  be  the  dagger’s  kiss; 
Laden  with  the  chill  of  death 
Is  its  breath. 

Like  the  drifting  snow  she  sweeps 
To  the  couch  where  Olaf  sleeps  ; 
Suddenly  he  wakes  and  stirs, 

His  eyes  meet  hers. 


“ What  is  that,”  King  Olaf  said, 
“Gleams  so  bright  above  my  head? 
Wherefore  standest  thou  so  white 
In  pale  moonlight  ? ” 

“ ’T  is  the  bodkin  that  I wear 
When  at  night  I bind  my  hair  ; 

It  woke  me  falling  on  the  floor ; 
’T  is  nothing  more.” 


“ Forests  have  ears,  and  fields  have  eyes ; 
Often  treachery  lurking  lies 
Underneath  the  fairest  hair ! 

Gudrun  beware  ! ” 


Ere  the  earliest  peep  of  morn 
Blew  King  Olaf’s  bugle-horn  ; 
And  forever  sundered  ride 
Bridegroom  and  bride ! 


404 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


IX. 


THANGBRAND  THE  PRIEST. 


Short  of  stature,  large  of  limb. 

Burly  face  and  russet  beard, 

All  the  women  stared  at  him. 

When  in  Iceland  he  appeared. 

“ Look  ! ” t-liey  said, 

With  nodding  head, 

“ There  goes  Thangbrand,  Olaf’s  Priest.” 

All  the  prayers  he  knew  by  rote, 

He  could  preach  like  Clirysostome, 
From  the  Fathers  he  could  cpiote, 

He  had  even  been  at  Home. 

A learned  clerk, 

A man  of  mark, 

Was  this  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 


In  his  house  this  malcontent 
Could  the  King  no  longer  bear, 

So  to  Iceland  he  was  sent 

To  convert  the  heathen  there, 

And  away 
One  summer  day 

Sailed  this  Thangbrand,  Olaf’s  Priest. 

There  in  Iceland,  o’er  their  books 
Pored  the  people  day  and  night, 
But  lie  did  not  like  their  looks, 

Nor  the  songs  they  used  to  write. 

“ All  this  rhyme 
Is  waste  of  time  ! ” 

Grumbled  Thangbrand,  Olaf’s  Priest. 


He  was  quarrelsome  and  loud, 

And  impatient  of  control. 

Boisterous  in  the  market  crowd, 
Boisterous  at  the  wassail-bowl, 
Everywhere 

Would  drink  and  swear, 
Swaggering  Thangbrand,  Olaf’s  Priest. 


HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


405 


To  the  alehouse,  where  he  sat, 

Came  the  Scalds  and  Saga-men  ; 

Is  it  to  be  wondered  at, 

That  they  quarrelled  now  and  then, 
When  o’er  his  beer 
Began  to  leer 

Drunken  Thangbrand,  Olaf’s  Priest? 

All  the  folk  in  Altafiord 

Boasted  of  their  island  grand  ; 

Saying  in  a single  word, 

“ Iceland  is  the  finest  land 
That  the  sun 
Doth  shine  upon  ! ” 

Loud  laughed  Thangbrand,  Olaf’s  Priest. 

And  he  answered  : “ What ’s  the  use 
Of  this  bragging  up  and  down, 

When  three  women  and  one  goose 
Make  a market  in  your  town  ! ” 

Every  Scald 
Satires  scrawled 

On  poor  Thangbrand,  Olaf’s  Priest. 


X. 

RAUD  THE 

“ All  the  old  gods  are  dead, 

All  the  wild  warlocks  fled  ; 

But  the  White  Christ  lives  and  reigns, 

And  throughout  my  wide  domains 
His  Gospel  shall  be  spread ! ” 

On  the  Evangelists 
Thus  swore  King  Olaf. 

But  still  in  dreams  of  the  night 
Beheld  he  the  crimson  light, 

And  heard  the  voice  that  defied 
Him  who  was  crucified, 

And  challenged  him  to  the  fight. 

To  Sigurd  the  Bishop 
King  Olaf  confessed  it. 

And  Sigurd  the  Bishop  said, 

“ The  old  gods  are  not  dead, 

For  the  great  Thor  still  reigns, 

And  among  the  Jarls  and  Thanes 


Something  worse  they  did  than  that ; 

And  what  vexed  him  most  of  all 
Was  a figure  in  shovel  hat, 

Drawn  in  charcoal  on  the  wall ; 

With  words  that  go 
Sprawling  below, 

“ This  is  Thangbrand,  Olaf’s  Priest.” 

Hardly  knowing  what  he  did, 

Then  he  smote  them  might  and  main, 
Thorvald  Veile  and  Veterlid 
Lay  there  in  the  alehouse  slain. 

“ To-day  we  are  gold, 

To-morrow  mould  ! ” 

Muttered  Thangbrand,  Olaf’s  Priest. 

Much  in  fear  of  axe  and  rope, 

Back  to  Norway  sailed  he  then. 

“ O King  Olaf  ! little  hope 

Is  there  of  these  Iceland  men ! ” 
Meekly  said, 

With  bending  head, 

Pious  Thangbrand,  Olaf’s  Priest. 


STRONG. 

The  old  witchcraft  still  is  spread.” 
Thus  to  King  Olaf 
Said  Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

“ Far  north  in  the  Salten  Fiord, 

By  rapine,  fire,  and  sword, 

Lives  the  Viking,  Raud  the  Strong; 
All  the  Godoe  Isles  belong 
To  him  and  his  heathen  horde.” 
Thus  went  on  speaking 
Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

“ A warlock,  a wizard  is  he, 

And  lord  of  the  wind  and  the  sea ; 
And  whichever  way  he  sails, 

He  has  ever  favoring  gales, 

By  his  craft  in  sorcery.” 

Here  the  sign  of  the  cross 
Made  devoutly  King  Olaf. 


406 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


“ With  rites  that  we  both  abhor, 
He  worships  Odin  and  Thor  ; 

So  it  cannot  yet  be  said, 

That  all  the  old  gods  are  dead, 
And  the  warlocks  are  no  more,” 
Flushing  with  anger 
Said  Sigurd  the  Bishop. 


Then  King  Olaf  cried  aloud : 

“ 1 will  talk  with  this  mighty  Baud, 
And  along  the  Salten  Fiord 
Preach  the  Gospel  with  my  sword, 
Or  be  brought  back  in  my  shroud ! ” 
So  northward  from  Drontheim 
Sailed  King  Olaf ! 


XI. 


BISHOP  SIGURD  AT  SALTEN  FIORD. 


Loud  the  angry  wind  was  wailing 
As  King  Olaf’s  ships  came  sailing 
Northward  out  of  Drontheim  haven 
To  the  mouth  of  Salten  Fiord. 

Though  the  flying  sea-spray  drenches 
Fore  and  aft  the  rowers’  benches, 

Not  a single  heart  is  craven 

Of  the  champions  there  on  board. 

All  without  the  Fiord  was  quiet, 

But  within  it  storm  and  riot, 

Such  as  on  his  Viking  cruises 

Raud  the  Strong  was  wont  to  ride. 

And  the  sea  through  all  its  tide-ways 
Swept  the  reeling  vessels  sideways, 

As  the  leaves  are  swept  through  sluices, 
When  the  flood-gates  open  wide. 

“ T is  the  warlock  ! ’ tis  the  demon 
Raud ! ” cried  Sigurd  to  the  seamen  ; 

“ But  the  Lord  is  not  affrighted 

By  the  witchcraft  of  his  foes.” 

To  the  ship’s  bow  he  ascended, 

By  his  choristers  attended, 

Round  him  were  the  tapers  lighted, 

And  the  sacred  incense  rose. 

On  the  bow  stood  Bishop  Sigurd, 

In  his  robes,  as  one  transfigured, 

And  the  Crucifix  he  planted 

High  amid  the  rain  and  mist. 

Then  with  holy  water  sprinkled 
All  the  ship;  the  mass-bells  tinkled: 


Loud  the  monks  around  him  chanted, 

Loud  he  read  the  Evangelist. 

As  into  the  Fiord  they  darted, 

On  each  side  the  water  parted  ; 

Down  a path  like  silver  molten 

Steadily  rowed  King  Olaf’s  ships ; 

Steadily  burned  all  night  the  tapers, 

And  the  White  Christ  through  the  vapors 
Gleamed  across  the  Fiord  of  Salten, 

As  through  John’s  Apocalypse, — 

Till  at  last  they  reached  Raud’s  dwelling 
On  the  little  isle  of  Gelling ; 

Not  a guard  was  at  the  doorway, 

Not  a glimmer  of  light  was  seen. 

But  at  anchor,  carved  and  gilded, 

Lay  the  dragon-ship  he  budded , 

’T  was  the  grandest  ship  in  Norway, 

With  its  crest  and  scales  of  green. 

Up  the  stairway,  softly  creeping, 

To  the  loft  where  Raud  was  sleeping, 

With  their  fists  they  burst  asunder 
Bolt  and  bar  that  held  the  door. 

Drunken  with  sleep  and  ale  they  found  him. 
Dragged  him  from  his  bed  and  bound  him, 
While  lie  stared  with  stupid  wonder, 

At  the  look  and  garb  they  wore. 

Then  King  Olaf  said : “ O Sea-King ! 

Little  time  have  we  for  speaking, 

Choose  between  the  good  and  evil ; 

Be  baptized,  or  thou  shalt  die ! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW- 


40 


But  in  scorn  the  heathen  scoffer 
Answered  : “ I disdain  thine  offer  ; 

Neither  fear  I God  nor  Devil ; 

Thee  and  thy  Gospel  I defy ! ” 

Then  between  his  jaws  distended, 

When  his  frantic  struggles  ended, 

Through  King  Olaf’s  horn  an  adder, 

Touched  by  fire,  they  forced  to  glide. 

Sharp  his  tooth  was  as  an  arrow, 

As  lie  gnawed  through  bone  and  marrow ; 
But  without  a groan  or  shudder, 

Raud  the  Strong  blaspheming  died. 

Then  baptized  they  all  that  region, 
Swarthy  Lap  and  fair  Norwegian, 


Far  as  swims  the  salmon,  leaping, 

Up  the  streams  of  Salten  Fiord. 

In  their  temples  Thor  and  Odin 
Lay  in  dust  and  ashes  trodden, 

As  King  Olaf,  onward  sweeping, 

Preached  the  Gospel  with  his  sword. 

Then  he  took  the  carved  and  gilded 
Dragon-ship  that  Raud  had  builded, 

And  the  tiller  single-handed, 

Grasping,  steered  into  the  main. 

Southward  sailed  the  sea-gulls  o’er  him, 
Southward  sailed  the  ship  that  bore  him, 
Till  at  Drontheim  haven  landed 
Olaf  and  his  crew  again. 


XII. 

KING  OI.AF’S  CHRISTMAS. 

“ Sing  me  a song  divine, 

With  a sword  in  every  line, 

And  this  shall  be  thy  reward.” 
And  he  loosened  the  belt  at  his  waist, 
And  in  front  of  the  singer  placed 
His  sword. 


At  Drontheim,  Olaf  the  King 
Heard  the  bells  of  Yule-tide  ring, 

As  he  sat  in  his  banquet-hall, 

Drinking  the  nut-brown  ale, 

With  his  bearded  Berserks  hale 
And  tall. 

Three  days  his  Yule-tide  feasts 
He  held  with  Bishops  and  Priests, 

And  his  horn  filled  up  to  the  brim  ; 

But  the  ale  was  never  too  strong, 

Nor  the  Saga-man’s  tale  too  long, 

For  him. 

O’er  his  drinking-horn,  the  sign 
He  made  of  the  cross  divine, 

As  he  drank,  and  muttered  his  prayers ; 
But  the  Berserks  evermore 
Made  the  sign  of  the  Hammer  of  Thor 
Over  theirs. 

The  gleams  of  the  fire-light  dance 
Upon  helmet  and  hauberk  and  lance, 

And  laugh  in  the  eyes  of  the  King  ; 

And  he  cries  to  Halfred  the  Scald, 
Gray-bearded,  wrinkled,  and  bald, 

“ Sing  ! ” 


“ Quern-biter  of  Hakon  the  Good, 
Wherewith  at  a stroke  he  hewed 

The  millstone  through  and  through, 
And  Foot-breadth  of  Tlioralf  the  Strong, 
Were  neither  so  broad  nor  so  long, 

Nor  so  true.” 

Then  the  Scald  took  his  harp  and  sang 
And  loud  through  the  music  rang 

The  sound  of  that  shining  word  ; 
And  the  harp-strings  a clangor  made, 

As  if  they  were  struck  with  the  blade 
Of  a sword. 

And  the  Berserks  round  about 
Broke  forth  into  a shout 

That  made  the  rafters  ring:. 

They  smote  with  their  fists  on  the  board. 
And  shouted,  “ Long  live  the  Sword, 

And  the  King  ! ” 


408 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


But  the  King  said,  “ O my  son, 

I miss  the  bright  word  in  one 

Of  thy  measures  and  thy  rhymes.” 
And  Half  red  the  Scald  replied, 

“ In  another  ’t  was  multiplied 
Three  times.” 

Then  King  Olaf  raised  the  hilt 
Of  iron,  cross-shaped  and  gilt, 

And  said,  “ Do  not  refuse ; 

Count  well  the  gain  and  the  loss, 
Thor’s  hammer  or  Christ’s  cross: 
Choose ! ” 

And  Halfred  the  Scald  said,  “ This 
In  the  name  of  the  Lord  I kiss, 

Who  on  it  was  crucified ! ” 


And  a shout  went  round  the  board, 

“ In  the  name  of  Christ  the  Lord, 

Who  died  ! ” 

Then  over  the  waste  of  snows 
The  noonday  sun  uprose, 

Through  the  driving  mists  revealed, 
Like  the  lifting  of  the  Host, 

By  incense-clouds  almost 
Concealed. 

On  the  shining  wall  a vast 
And  shadowy  cross  was  cast 

From  the  hilt  of  the  lifted  sword, 
And  in  foaming  cups  of  ale 
The  Berserks  drank  “Was-hael! 

To  the  Lord  ! ” 


XIII. 

THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  LONG  SERPENT. 


Thorberg  Skafting,  master-builder, 

In  his  ship-yard  by  the  sea, 

Whistling,  said,  “ It  would  bewilder 
Any  man  but  Thorberg  Skafting, 

Any  man  but  me  ! ” 

Near  him  lay  the  Dragon  stranded, 

Built  of  old  by  Raud  the  Strong, 

And  King  Olaf  had  commanded 
He  should  build  another  Dragon, 

Twice  as  large  and  long. 

Therefore  whistled  Thorberg  Skafting, 

As  he  sat  with  half-closed  eyes, 

And  his  head  turned  sideways,  drafting 
That  new  vessel  for  King  Olaf 
Twice  the  Dragon’s  size. 

Round  him  busily  hewed  and  hammered 
Mallet  huge  and  heavy  axe ; 

W orkmen  laughed  and  sang  and  clamored  ; 
Whirred  the  wheels,  that  into  rigging 
Spun  the  shining  flax  ! 

All  this  tumult  heard  the  master,  — 

It  was  music  to  his  ear ; 

Fancy  whispered  all  the  faster, 


“ Men  shall  hear  of  Thorberg  Skafting 
For  a hundred  year  ! ” 

Workmen  sweating  at  the  forges 
Fashioned  iron  bolt  and  bar, 

Like  a warlock’s  midnight  orgies 
Smoked  and  bubbled  the  black  caldron 
With  the  boiling  tar. 

Did  the  warlocks  mingle  in  it, 

Thorberg  Skafting,  any  curse  ? 
Could  you  not  be  gone  a minute 
But  some  mischief  must  be  doing, 
Turning  bad  to  worse  ? 

’T  was  an  ill  wind  that  came  wafting, 
From  his  homestead  words  of  woe  ; 
To  his  farm  went  Thorberg  Skafting, 
Oft  repeating  to  his  workmen, 

Build  ye  thus  and  so. 

After  long  delays  returning 

Came  the  master  back  by  night ; 
To  his  ship-yard  longing,  yearning, 
Hurried  he,  and  did  not  leave  it 
Till  the  morning’s  light. 


uenr  y ir.  i /)s  won  tii  l on g fell o w. 


409 


“Come  and  see  my  ship,  my  darling!'’ 
On  the  morrow  said  the  King; 
“Finished  now  from  keel  to  carling; 
Never  yet  was  seen  in  Norway 
Such  a wondrous  thing ! ” 

In  the  ship-yard,  idly  talking, 

At  the  ship  the  workmen  stared  : 
Some  one,  all  their  labor  balking, 
Down  her  sides  had  cut  deep  gashes, 
Not  a plank  was  spared  ! 


“ Death  be  to  the  evil-doer  ! ” 

With  an  oath  King  Olaf  spoke; 

“ But  rewards  to  his  pursuer  ! ” 

And  with  wrath  his  lace  grew  redder 
Than  his  scarlet  cloak. 

Straight  the  master-builder,  smiling, 
Answered  thus  the  angry  King: 
“Cease  blaspheming  and  reviling, 

Olaf,  it  was  Thorberg  Skafting 
Who  has  done  this  thing!” 


Then  he  chipped  and  smoothed  the  planking, 
Till  the  King,  delighted,  swore, 

With  much  lauding  and  much  thanking, 
“Handsomer  is  now  my  Dragon 
Than  she  was  before  ! ” 

Seventy  ells  and  four  extended 
On  the  grass  the  vessel’s  keel  : 

High  above  it,  gilt  and  splendid, 

Rose  the  figure-head  ferocious 
With  its  crest  of  steel. 

52 


Then  they  launched  her  from  the  tressels. 
In  the  ship-yard  by  the  sea  ; 

She  was  the  grandest  of  all  vessels, 

Never  ship  was  built  in  Norway 
Half  so  fine  as  she  ! 

The  Long  Serpent  was  she  christened, 
’Mid  the  roar  of  cheer  on  cheer  ! 

They  who  to  the  Saga  listened 
Heard  the  name  of  Thorberg;  Skafting 

o o 

For  a hundred  year  ! 


410 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


XIV. 


THE  CREW  OF  THE 

Safe  at  anchor  in  Drontlieim  bay 
King  Olaf’s  fleet  assembled  lay, 

And,  striped  with  white  and  blue, 

Downward  fluttered  sail  and  banner, 

As  alights  the  screaming  lanner ; 

Lustily  cheered,  in  their  wild  manner, 

The  Long  Serpent’s  crew. 

Her  forecastle  man  was  Ulf  the  Red; 

Like  a wolf’s  was  his  shaggy  head, 

His  teeth  as  large  and  white  ; 

His  beard,  of  gray  and  russet  blended, 

Round  as  a swallow’s  nest  descended ; 

As  standard-bearer  he  defended 
Olaf’s  flag  in  the  fight. 

Near  him  Kolbiorn  had  his  place, 

Like  the  King  in  garb  and  face, 

So  gallant  and  so  hale ; 

Every  cabin-boy  and  varlet 
Wondered  at  his  cloak  of  scarlet; 

Like  a river,  frozen  and  star-lit, 

Gleamed  his  coat  of  mail. 

By  the  bulkhead,  tall  and  dark, 

Stood  Thrand  Rame  of  Thelemark, 

A figure  gaunt  and  grand ; 

On  his  hairy  arm  imprinted 
W as  an  anchor,  azure-tinted  ; 

Like  Thor’s  hammer,  huge  and  dinted 
Was  Ins  brawny  hand. 

Einar  Tamberskelver,  bare 
To  the  winds  his  golden  hair, 

By  the  mainmast  stood ; 

Graceful  was  his  form,  and  slender, 

XV. 

A LITTLE  BIRD 

A LITTLE  bird  in  the  air 
Is  singing  of  Thyri  the  fair, 

The  sister  of  Svend  the  Dane  ; 

And  the  song  of  the  garrulous  bird 


And  his  eyes  were  deep  and  tender 
As  a woman's,  in  the  splendor 
Of  her  maidenhood. 

In  the  fore-hold  Biorn  and  Bork 
Watched  the  sailors  at  their  work  ; 

Heavens  ! how  they  swore  ! 

Thirty  men  they  each  commanded, 
Iron-sinewed,  horny-handed, 

Shoulders  broad,  and  chests  expanded, 
Tugging  at  the  oar. 

These,  and  many  more  like  these, 

With  King  Olaf  sailed  the  seas, 

Till  the  waters  vast 
Filled  them  with  a vague  devotion, 

With  the  freedom  and  the  motion, 

With  the  roll  and  roar  of  ocean 
And  the  sounding  blast. 

When  they  landed  from  the  fleet, 

How  they  roared  through  Drontheim's  street. 
Boisterous  as  the  gale  ! 

How  they  laughed  and  stamped  and  pounded, 
Till  the  tavern  roof  resounded, 

And  the  host  looked  on  astounded 
As  they  drank  the  ale  ! 

Never  saw  the  wild  North  Sea 
Such  a gallant  company 
Sail  its  billows  blue  ! 

Never,  while  they  cruised  and  quarrelled, 
Old  King  Gorm,  or  Blue-Tooth  Ilarald, 
Owned  a ship  so  well  apparelled, 

Boasted  such  a crew  ! 


N THE  AIR. 

In  the  streets  of  the  town  is  heard, 
And  repeated  again  and  again. 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 

And  flee  away  from  each  other. 


I1ENR  Y WADS  WORTH  L ON G FELL 0 M 


To  King  Burislaf,  it  is  said, 

Was  the  beautiful  Thyri  wed, 

And  a sorrowful  bride  went  she  ; 

And  after  a week  and  a day, 

She  has  fled  away  and  away, 

From  his  town  by  the  stormy  sea. 

Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 

And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

They  say,  that  through  hear  and  through  cold, 
Through  weald,  they  say,  and  through  wold, 
By  day  and  by  night,  they  say, 

She  has  fled  ; and  the  gossips  report 
She  has  come  to  King  Olaf's  court, 

And  the  town  is  all  in  dismay. 

Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 

And  flee  away  from  each  other. 


It  is  whispered  King  Olaf  has  seen. 
Has  talked  with  the  beautiful  Queen  ; 

And  they  wonder  how  it  will  end  ; 
For  surely,  if  here  she  remain, 

It  is  war  with  King  Svend  the  Dane, 
And  King  Burislaf  the  Vend  ! 

Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 

And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

Oh,  greatest  wonder  of  all  ! 

It  is  published  in  hamlet  and  hall, 

It  roars  like  a flame  that  is  fanned  ! 
The  King  — yes,  Olaf  the  King  — 

Has  wedded  her  with  his  ring:, 

<D’ 

And  Thyri  is  Queen  in  the  land  ! 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 

And  flee  away  from  each  other. 


412 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


XVI. 


QUEEN  THYRI  AND  THE 

Northward  over  Drontheim, 

Flew  the  clamorous  sea-gulls, 

Sang  the  lark  ancl  linnet 
From  the  meadows  green ; 

Weeping  in  her  chamber, 

Lonely  and  unhappy. 

Sat  the  Drottning  Thyri, 

Sat  King  Olaf’s  Queen. 

In  at  all  the  windows 
Streamed  the  pleasant  sunshine, 

On  the  roof  above  her 
Softly  cooed  the  dove ; 

But  the  sound  she  heard  not, 

Nor  the  sunshine  heeded, 

For  the  thoughts  of  Thyri 
Were  not  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  King  Olaf  entered, 

Beautiful  as  morning, 

Like  the  sun  at  Easter 
Shone  his  happy  face ; 

In  his  hand  he  carried 
Angelicas  uprooted, 

With  delicious  fragrance 
Filling  all  the  place. 

Like  a rainy  midnight 
Sat  the  Drottning  Thyri, 

Even  the  smile  of  Olaf 

Could  not  cheer  her  gloom  ; 

Nor  the  stalks  he  gave  her 
With  a gracious  gesture, 

And  with  words  as  pleasant 
As  their  own  perfume. 

In  her  hands  he  placed  them, 

And  her  jewelled  fingers 
Through  the  green  leaves  glistened 
Like  the  dews  of  morn  ; 


ANGELICA  STALKS. 

But  she  cast  them  from  her, 
Haughty  and  indignant, 

On  the  floor  she  threw  them 
With  a look  of  scorn. 

“ Richer  presents,”  said  she, 

“ Gave  King  Harald  Gormson 
To  the  Queen,  my  mother, 

Than  such  worthless  weeds ; 

“ When  he  ravaged  Norway, 

Laying  waste  the  kingdom, 

Seizing  scatt  and  treasure 
For  her  royal  needs. 

“ But  thou  darest  not  venture 
Through  the  Sound  to  Vendlaml, 
My  domains  to  rescue 
From  King  Burislaf  ; 

“ Lest  King  Svend  of  Denmark, 
Forked  Beard,  my  brother, 

Scatter  all  thy  vessels 
As  the  wind  the  chaff.” 

Then  up  sprang  King  Olaf, 

Like  a reindeer  bounding, 

With  an  oath  he  answered 
Thus  the  luckless  Queen  : 

“ Never  yet  did  Olaf 
Fear  King  Svend  of  Denmark  ; 
This  right  hand  shall  hale  him 
By  his  forked  chin  ! ” 

Then  he  left  the  chamber, 
Thundering  through  the  doorway, 
Loud  his  steps  resounded 
Down  the  outer  stair. 

Smarting  with  the  insult, 

Through  the  streets  of  Drontheim 
Strode  he  red  and  wrathful, 

With  his  stately  air. 


ARTIST:  CHARLES  S.  REINHART. 


" Like  a rainy  midnight 
Sat  the  Drottning  Thyri.” 

Queen  Thyri  and  the  Angelica  Stalks. 


Wraii  y 

OF  f|ff 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


413 


All  his  ships  lie  gathered, 
Summoned  all  his  forces, 

Mai  dug  his  war  levy 
In  the  region  round ; 

Down  the  coast  of  Norway, 
Like  a flock  of  sea-gulls, 
Sailed  the  fleet  of  Olaf 

Through  the  Danish  Sound. 

With  his  own  hand  fearless. 
Steered  he  the  Long  Serpent, 
Strained  the  creaking  cordage, 
Bent  each  boom  and  gaff ; 


I'ill  in  Vend  land  landing, 
The  domains  of  Tliyri 
He  redeemed  and  rescued 
From  King  Burislaf. 

Then  said  Olaf,  laughing, 

“ Not  ten  yoke  of  oxen 
Have  tiie  power  to  draw  us 
Like  a woman’s  hair ! 

u Now  will  I confess  it, 
Better  things  are  jewels 
Than  angelica  stalks  are 
For  a queen  to  wear.” 


XVII. 

KING  SVEND  OF  THE  FORKED  HEARD. 


Loudly  the  sailors  cheered 
Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard, 

As  with  his  fleet  he  steered 
Southward  to  Vendland  ; 
Where  with  their  courses  hauled 
All  were  together  called, 

Under  the  Isle  of  Svald 
Near  to  the  mainland. 

After  Queen  Gunhild’s  death, 

So  the  old  Saga  saitli, 

Plighted  King  Svend  his  faith 

O o 

To  Sigrid  the  Haughty  ; 

And  to  avenge  his  bride, 
Soothing  her  wounded  pride, 
Over  the  waters  wide 
King  Olaf  sought  he. 

Still  on  her  scornful  face. 
Blushing  with  deep  disgrace, 
Bore  she  the  crimson  trace 
Of  Olaf’s  gauntlet ; 

Like  a malignant  star, 

Blazing  in  heaven  afar, 

Red  shone  the  angry  scar 
Under  her  frontlet. 

Oft  to  King  Svend  she  spake, 

“ For  thine  own  honor’s  sake 
Shalt  thou  swift  vengeance  take 
On  the  vile  coward ! ” 


414 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Until  the  King  at  last, 

Gusty  and  overcast, 

Like  a tempestuous  blast 
Threatened  and  lowered. 

Soon  as  the  Spring  appeared, 
Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard 
High  his  red  standard  reared, 
Eager  for  battle  ; 

While  every  warlike  Dane, 
Seizing  his  arms  again, 

Left  all  unsown  the  grain, 
Unhoused  the  cattle. 

Likewise  the  Swedish  King 
Summoned  in  haste  a Thing, 
Weapons  and  men  to  bring 
In  aid  of  Denmark  ; 

Eric  the  Norseman,  too, 

As  the  war-tidings  flew, 

Sailed  with  a chosen  crew 
From  Lapland  and  Fin  mark. 

So  upon  Easter  day 
Sailed  the  three  kings  away, 


Out  of  the  sheltered  bay, 

In  the  bright  season ; 

With  them  Earl  Sigvald  came, 
Eager  for  spoil  and  fame  ; 

Pity  that  such  a name 
Stooped  to  such  treason  ! 

Safe  under  Svald  at  last, 

Now  were  their  anchors  cast, 
Safe  from  the  sea  and  blast, 
Plotted  the  three  kings  ; 
While,  with  a base  intent, 
Southward  Earl  Sigvald  went, 
On  a foul  errand  bent, 

Unto  the  Sea-kings. 

Thence  to  hold  on  his  course 
Unto  King  Olaf’s  force, 

Lying  within  the  hoarse 
Mouths  of  Stet-liaven ; 

Him  to  ensnare  and  bring, 

Unto  the  Danish  king, 

Who  his  dead  corse  would  fling 
Forth  to  the  raven  ! 


XVIII. 

KIXG  OLA F A XI)  KARL  SIGVALD. 


On  the  gray  sea-sands 
King  Olaf  stands, 
Northward  and  seaward 
He  points  with  his  hands. 

With  eddy  and  whirl 
The  sea-tides  curl, 

Washing  the  sandals 
Of  Sigvald  the  Earl. 

The  mariners  shout, 

The  ships  swing  about, 
The  yards  are  all  hoisted, 
The  sails  flutter  out. 

The  war-horns  are  played. 
The  anchors  are  weighed, 
Like  moths  in  the  distance 
The  sails  flit  and  fade. 


The  sea  is  like  lead. 

The  harbor  lies  dead, 

As  a corse  on  the  sea-shore, 
Whose  spirit  has  fled ! 

On  that  fatal  day, 

The  histories  say, 

Seventy  vessels 
Sailed  out  of  the  bay. 

But  soon  scattered  wide 
O’er  the  billows  they  ride, 
While  Sigvald  and  Olaf 
Sail  side  by  side. 

Cried  the  Earl : “ Follow  me 
I your  pilot  will  be, 

For  I know  all  the  channels 
Where  flows  the  deep  sea ! ” 


HEN  It  Y W A VS  WOR  Til  L ON  Gh'EL  LOW. 


415 


So  into  the  strait 
Where  his  foes  lie  in  wait, 
Gallant  King  Olaf 
Sails  to  his  fate  ! 


Then  the  sea  fog  veils 
The  ships  and  their  sails  ; 
Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty, 
Thy  vengeance  prevails ! 


XIX. 

KING  OLA  IS  WAK-HOHNS. 


Strike  the  sails ! ” King  Olaf  said ; 

Never  shall  men  of  mine  take  flight ; 
Never  away  from  battle  I fled, 

Never  away  from  my  foes ! 

Let  God  dispose 
Of  my  life  in  the  fight  ! ” 

Sound  the  horns  ! ” said  Olaf  the  King: ; 

O 7 

And  suddenly  through  the  drifting  brume 
The  blare  of  the  horns  began  to  ring:, 
Like  the  terrible  trumpet  shock 
Of  Regnarock, 

On  the  Day  of  Doom  ! 


Louder  and  louder  the  war-liorns  sang 
Over  the  level  floor  of  the  flood ; 

All  the  sails  came  down  with  a clang, 
And  there  in  the  midst  overhead 
The  sun  hung  red 
As  a drop  of  blood. 

Drifting  down  on  the  Danish  fleet 
Three  together  the  ships  were  lashed, 

So  that  neither  should  turn  and  retreat ; 
In  the  midst,  but  in  front  of  the  rest 
The  burnished  crest 
Of  the  Sei’pent  flashed. 


416 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


King  Olaf  stood  on  the  quarter-deck, 
With  bow  of  ash  and  arrows  of  oak, 

His  gilded  shield  was  without  a fleck. 

His  hamlet  inlaid  with  gold, 

And  in  many  a fold 
Hung  his  crimson  cloak. 

On  the  forecastle  Ulf  the  Red 
Watched  the  lashing  of  the  ships; 

“If  the  Serpent  lie  so  far  ahead, 

We  shall  have  hard  work  of  it  here, 

Said  he  with  a sneer 
On  his  bearded  lips. 

King  Olaf  laid  an  arrow  on  string, 

“ Have  I a coward  on  board  ? ” said  he. 
“Shoot  it  another  way,  O King!” 

Sullenly  answered  Ulf, 

The  old  sea-wolf; 

“ You  have  need  of  me  ! ” 

In  front  came  Svend,  the  King  of  the 
Danes, 

Sweeping  down  with  his  fifty  rowers  ; 

To  the  right,  the  Swedish  king  with  his 
thanes ; 


And  on  board  of  the  Iron  Beard 
Earl  Eric  steered 
To  the  left  with  his  oars. 

“ These  soft  Danes  and  Swedes,”  said  the 
King, 

“ At  home  with  their  wives  had  better  stay, 
Than  come  within  reach  of  my  Serpent's 
sting  : 

But  where  Eric  the  Norseman  leads 
Heroic  deeds 
Will  be  done  to-day  ! ” 

Then  as  together  the  vessels  crashed, 

Eric  severed  the  cables  of  hide, 

With  which  King  Olaf’s  ships  were  lashed, 
And  left  them  to  drive  and  drift 
With  the  currents  swift 
Of  the  outward  tide. 

Louder  the  war-horns  growl  and  snarl, 
Sharper  the  dragons  bite  and  sting  ! 

Eric  the  son  of  Hakon  Jarl 
A death-drink  salt  as  the  sea 
Pledges  to  thee, 

Olaf  the  King! 


XX. 


KIN  A It  TA.MIIF.IISK  K I.  V K 1! . 


It  was  Einar  Tamberskelver 
Stood  beside  the  mast ; 

From  his  yew-bow,  tipped  with  silver. 
Flew  the  arrows  fast ; 

Aimed  at  Eric  unavailing, 

As  he  sat  concealed, 

Half  behind  the  quarter-railing, 

Half  behind  his  shield. 

First  an  arrow  struck  the  tiller, 

Just  above  his  head  ; 

“ Sing,  O Eyvind  Skaldaspiller,” 

Then  Earl  Eric  said. 

“Sing  the  song  of  Hakon  dying, 

Sing  his  funeral  wail ! ” 

And  another  arrow  flying 
Grazed  his  coat  of  mail. 


Turning  to  a Lapland  yeoman, 

As  the  arrow  passed, 

Said  Earl  Eric,  “ Shoot  that  bowman 
Standing  by  the  mast.” 

Sooner  than  the  word  was  spoken 
Flew  the  yeoman’s  shaft ; 

Einar’s  bow  in  twain  was  broken, 

Einar  only  laughed. 

“ What  was  that  ? ” said  Olaf,  standing 
On  the  quarter-deck. 

“ Something  heard  I like  the  stranding 
Of  a shattered  wreck.” 

Einar  then,  the  arrow  taking 
From  the  loosened  string. 

Answered,  “ That  was  Norway  breaking 
From  thy  hand,  O King!” 


HENR  Y I VA  DS  WOR  TH  L ONGFKLL  0 W. 


41 


“ Thou  art  but  a poor  diviner,” 
Straightway  Olaf  said ; 

“ Take  my  bow,  and  swifter,  Einar, 
Let  thy  shafts  be  sped.” 

Of  his  bows  the  fairest  choosing, 
Reached  he  from  above ; 

Einar  saw  the  blood-drops  oozing 
Through  his  iron  glove. 

But  the  bow  was  thin  and  narrow ; 

At  the  first  assay, 

O’er  its  head  lie  drew  the  arrow, 
Flung  the  bow  away  ; 


Said,  with  hot  and  angry  temper 
Flushing  in  his  cheek, 

“Olaf!  for  so  great  a Kamper 
Are  thy  bows  too  weak ! ” 

Then,  with  smile  of  joy  defiant 
On  his  beardless  lip, 

Scaled  he,  light  and  self-reliant, 

Ei  ■ic’s  dragon-ship. 

Loose  his  golden  locks  were  flowing, 
Bright  his  armor  gleamed  ; 

Like  Saint  Michael  overthrowing 
Lucifer  he  seemed. 


XXL 


KING  OLAF’S  DEATH-DRINK. 


All  day  has  the  battle  raged, 

All  day  have  the  ships  engaged, 

But  not  yet  is  assuaged 

The  vengeance  of  Eric  the  Earl. 

The  decks  with  blood  are  red, 

The  arrows  of  death  are  sped, 

The  ships  are  filled  with  the  dead, 

And  the  spears  the  champions  hurl. 

They  drift  as  wrecks  on  the  tide, 

The  grappling-irons  are  plied, 

The  boarders  climb  up  the  side, 

The  shouts  are  feeble  and  few. 

Ah ! never  shall  Norway  again 

See  her  sailors  come  back  o’er  the  main  ; 

They  all  lie  wounded  or  slain, 

Or  asleep  in  the  billows  blue ! 

On  the  deck  stands  Olaf  the  Ivins', 

O" 

Around  him  whistle  and  sing 
The  spears  that  the  foemen  fling, 

And  the  stones  they  hurl  with  their  hands. 

In  the  midst  of  the  stones  and  the  spears, 
Kolbiorn,  the  marshal,  appears, 

His  shield  in  the  air  he  uprears, 

By  the  side  of  King  Olaf  he  stands. 

Over  the  slippery  wreck 
Of  the  Long  Serpent's  deck 

53 


Sweeps  Eric  with  hardly  a check, 

His  lips  with  anger  are  pale ; 

He  hews  with  his  axe  at  the  mast, 

Till  it  falls,  with  the  sails  overcast, 
Like  a snow-covered  pine  in  the  vast 
Dim  forests  of  Orkadale. 

Seeking  King  Olaf  then, 

He  rushes  aft  with  his  men, 

As  a hunter  into  the  den 

Of  the  bear,  when  he  stands  at  bay. 

“ Remember  Jarl  Hakon  ! ” he  cries  s 
When  lo  ! on  his  wondering  eyes, 

Two  kingly  figures  arise, 

Two  Olafs  in  warlike  array  ! 

Then  Kolbiorn  speaks  in  the  ear 
Of  King  Olaf  a word  of  cheer, 

In  a whisper  that  none  may  hear, 

With  a smile  on  his  tremulous  lip  ; 

Two  shields  raised  high  in  the  air, 

Two  flashes  of  golden  hair, 

Two  scarlet  meteors’  glare, 

And  both  have  leaped  from  the  ship. 

Earl  Eric’s  men  in  the  boats 
Seize  Ivolbiorn’s  shield  as  it  floats, 

And  cry,  from  their  hairy  throats. 

“ See ! it  is  Olaf  the  King  ! ” 


418 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


While  far  on  the  opposite  side 
Floats  another  shield  on  the  tide, 
Like  a jewel  set  in  the  wide 
Sea-current’s  eddying  ring. 

There  is  told  a wonderful  tale, 

How  the  King  stripped  off  his  mail, 


Like  leaves  of  the  brown  sea-kale, 
As  he  swam  beneath  the  main; 

But  the  young  grew  old  and  gray, 
And  never,  by  night  or  by  dajr, 

In  his  kingdom  of  Norroway 
Was  King  < )laf  seen  again  ! 


XXII. 


THE  NUN  OE  NIDAROS. 


In  the  convent  of  Drontheim, 
Alone  in  her  chamber 
Knelt  Astrid  the  Abbess, 

At  midnight,  adoring, 
Beseeching,  entreating 
The  Virgin  and  Mother. 


She  heard  in  the  silence 
The  voice  of  one  speaking, 
Without  in  the  darkness, 

In  gusts  of  the  night-wind 
Now  louder,  now  nearer, 
Now  lost  in  the  distance. 


HEN II Y IV A DS  IVOR  TH  L ON G FELL  0 IV. 


419 


The  voice  of  a stranger 
It  seemed  as  she  listened, 

Of  some  one  who  answered 
Beseeching,  imploring, 

A cry  from  afar  off 
She  could  not  distinguish. 

The  voice  of  Saint  John, 

The  beloved  disciple, 

Who  wandered  and  waited 
The  Master’s  appearance, 
Alone  in  the  darkness, 
Unsheltered  and  friendless. 

“It  is  accepted, 

The  angry  defiance, 

The  challenge  of  battle ! 

It  is  accepted, 

But  not  with  the  weapons 
Of  war  that  thou  wieldest ! 

“ Cross  against  corselet, 

Love  against  hatred, 

Peace-cry  for  war-cry  ! 
Patience  is  powerful  ; 

He  that  o'ercometh 

Hath  power  o'er  the  nations ! 

“As  torrents  in  summer, 

Half  dried  in  their  channels, 
Suddenly  rise,  though  the 


Sky  is  still  cloudless, 

For  rain  has  been  falling 
Far  off  at  their  fountains ; 

“So  hearts  that  are  fainting 
Grow  full  to  o’erflowing, 

And  they  that  behold  it 
Marvel,  and  know  not 
That  God  at  their  fountains 
Far  off  has  been  raining ! 

“ Stronger  than  steel 
Is  the  sword  of  the  Spirit : 
Swifter  than  arrows 
The  light  of  the  truth  is, 
Greater  than  anger 
Is  love,  and  subdueth  ! 

“ Thou  art  a phantom, 

A shape  of  the  sea-mist, 

A shape  of  the  brumal 
Rain,  and  the  darkness 
Fearful  and  formless  ; 

Day  dawns  and  thou  art  not ! 

“ The  dawn  is  not  distant, 

Nor  is  the  night  starless ; 

Love  is  eternal ! 

God  is  still  God,  and 
His  faith  shall  not  fail  us  ; 
Christ  is  eternal  ! ” 


INTERLUDE. 


A strain  of  music  closed  the  tale, 

A low,  monotonous,  funeral  wail, 

That  with  its  cadence,  wild  and  sweet, 
Made  the  long  Saga  more  complete. 

“ Thank  God,”  the  Theologian  said, 

“ The  reign  of  violence  is  dead, 

Or  dying  surely  from  the  world  ; 

While  Love  triumphant  reigns  instead, 
And  in  a brighter  sky  o’erhead 
His  blessed  banners  are  unfurled. 

And  most  of  all  thank  God  for  this  : 
The  war  and  waste  of  clashing  creeds 
Now  end  in  words,  and  not  in  deeds, 


And  no  one  suffers  loss,  or  bleeds, 

For  thoughts  that  men  call  heresies. 

“ I stand  without  here  in  the  porch, 

I hear  the  bell’s  melodious  din, 

I hear  the  organ  peal  within, 

I hear  the  prayer,  with  words  that 
scorch 

Like  sparks  from  an  inverted  torch, 

I hear  the  sermon  upon  sin, 

With  threatenings  of  the  last  account. 
And  all,  translated  in  the  air, 

Reach  me  but  as  our  dear  Lord’s  Prayer, 
And  as  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount. 


420 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


“ Must  it  be  Calvin,  and  not  Christ  ? 

Must  it  be  Athanasian  creeds, 

Or  holy  water,  books,  and  beads  ? 

Must  struggling  souls  remain  content 
With  councils  and  decrees  of  Trent? 

And  can  it  be  enough  for  these 
The  Christian  Church  the  year  em- 
balms 

With  evergreens  and  boughs  of  palms, 

And  fills  the  air  with  litanies  ? 

“ I know  that  yonder  Pharisee 
Thanks  God  that  he  is  not  like  me  ; 

In  my  humiliation  dressed, 

I only  stand  and  beat  my  breast, 

And  pray  for  human  charity. 

“ Not  to  one  church  alone,  but  seven, 

The  voice  prophetic  spake  from  heaven  ; 
And  unto  each  the  promise  came, 
Diversified,  but  still  the  same; 

For  him  that  overcometh  are 

The  new  name  written  on  the  stone, 

The  raiment  white,  the  crown,  the  throne, 
And  I will  give  him  the  Morning  Star ! 


“ Ah  ! to  how  many  Faith  has  been 
No  evidence  of  things  unseen, 

But  a dim  shadow,  that  recasts 
The  creed  of  the  Phantasiasts, 

For  whom  no  Man  of  Sorrows  died, 

For  whom  the  Tragedy  Divine 
W as  but  a symbol  and  a sign, 

And  Christ  a phantom  crucified  ! 

“ For  others  a diviner  creed 
Is  living  in  the  life  they  lead. 

The  passing  of  their  beautiful  feet 
Blesses  the  pavement  of  the  street, 

And  all  their  looks  and  words  repeat 
Old  Fuller’s  saying,  wise  and  sweet, 

Not  as  a vulture,  but  a dove, 
rFhe  Holy  Ghost  came  from  above. 

“ And  this  brings  back  to  me  a tale 
So  sad  the  hearer  well  may  quail, 

And  question  if  such  things  can  be; 

Yet  in  the  chronicles  of  Spain 
Down  the  dark  pages  runs  this  stain, 
And  naught  can  wash  them  white  again, 
So  fearful  is  the  tragedy.” 


THE  THEOLOGIAN’S  TALE. 

TORQUEMADA. 


In  the  heroic  days  when  Ferdinand 
And  Isabella  ruled  the  Spanish  land, 

And  Torquemada,  with  his  subtle  brain, 
Ruled  them,  as  Grand  Inquisitor  of  Spain, 
In  a great  castle  near  Valladolid, 

Moated  and  high  and  by  fair  woodlands  hid, 
There  dwelt,  as  from  the  chronicled  we 
learn, 

An  old  Hidalgo  proud  and  taciturn, 

Whose  name  has  perished,  with  his  towers 
of  stone, 

And  all  his  actions  save  this  one  alone  ; 
This  one,  so  terrible,  perhaps  ’t  were  best 
If  it,  too,  were  forgotten  with  the  rest  ; 
Unless,  perchance,  our  eyes  can  see  therein 
The  martyrdom  triumphant  o’er  the  sin  ; 

A double  picture,  with  its  gloom  and  glow, 
The  splendor  overhead,  the  death  below. 


This  sombre  man  counted  each  day  as  lost 
On  which  his  feet  no  sacred  threshold 
crossed ; 

And  when  he  chanced  the  passing  Host  to 
meet, 

He  knelt  and  prayed  devoutly  in  the  street : 
Oft  he  confessed ; and  with  each  mutinous 
thought, 

As  with  wild  beasts  at  Ephesus,  he  fought. 
In  deep  contrition  scourged  himself  in  Lent, 
Walked  in  processions,  with  his  head  down 
bent, 

At  plays  of  Corpus  Christi  oft  was  seen, 
And  on  Palm  Sunday  bore  his  bough  of 
green. 

His  sole  diversion  was  to  hunt  the  boar 
Through  tangled  thickets  of  the  forest  hoar, 
Or  with  his  jingling  mules  to  hurry  down 


MENU  T WADS  WOR  Til  L ON  OF  ELL  0 W. 


421 


u 


To  some  grand  bull-fight  in  the  neighboring 
town, 

Or  in  the  crowd  with  lighted  taper  stand, 
When  Jews  were  burned,  or  banished  from 
the  land. 

Then  stirred  within  him  a tumultuous  joy  ; 
The  demon  whose  delight  is  to  destroy 
Shook  him,  and  shouted  with  a trumpet  tone, 
Kill  ! kill  ! and  let  the  Lord  find  out  his 
own  ! ” 


And  now,  in  that  old  castle  in  the  wood, 
His  daughters,  in  the  dawn  of  womanhood, 
Returning  from  their  convent  school,  had 
made 

Resplendent  with  their  bloom  the  forestj 
shade, 

Reminding  him  of  their  dead  mother’s  face, 
When  first  she  came  into  that  gloomy 
place, — 

A memory  in  his  heart  as  dim  and  sweet 
As  moonlight  in  a solitary  street, 

Where  the  same  rays,  that  lift  the  sea,  are 
thrown 

Lovely  but  powerless  upon  walls  of  stone. 


These  two  fair  daughters  of  a mother  dead 
Were  all  the  dream  had  left  him  as  it  fled. 
A joy  at  first,  and  then  a growing  care, 
As  if  a voice  within  him  cried,  “ Beware  ! ” 
A vague  presentiment  of  impending  doom, 
Like  ghostly  footsteps  in  a vacant  room. 
Haunted  him  day  and  night ; a formless  fear 
That  death  to  some  one  of  his  house  was 
near, 


422 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


With  dark  surmises  of  a hidden  crime, 
Made  life  itself  a death  before  its  time. 
Jealous,  suspicious,  with  no  sense  of  shame, 
A spy  upon  his  daughters  he  became ; 
With  velvet  slippers,  noiseless  on  the  floors, 
He  glided  softly  through  half-open  doors ; 
Now  in  the  room,  and  now  upon  the  stair, 
He  stood  beside  them  ere  they  were  aware  ; 
He  listened  in  the  passage  when  they  talked, 
He  watched  them  from  the  casement  when 
they  walked, 

He  saw  the  gypsy  haunt  the  river's  side, 
He  saw  the  monk  among  the  cork-trees 
glide  ; 

And,  tortured  by  the  mystery  and  the  doubt 
Of  some  dark  secret,  past  his  finding  out, 
Baffled  he  paused  ; then  reassured  again 
Pursued  the  flying  phantom  of  his  brain. 
He  watched  them  even  when  they  knelt  in 
church  ; 

And  then,  descending  lower  in  his  search, 
Questioned  the  servants,  and  with  eager  eyes 
Listened  incredulous  to  their  replies ; 

The  gypsy  ? none  had  seen  her  in  the  wood  ! 
The  monk  ? a mendicant  in  search  of  food ! 

At  length  the  awful  revelation  came, 
Crushing  at  once  his  pride  of  birth  and 
name ; 

The  hopes  his  yearning  bosom  forward  cast, 
And  the  ancestral  glories  of  the  past, 

All  fell  together,  crumbling  in  disgrace, 

A turret  rent  from  battlement  to  base. 

His  daughters  talking  in  the  dead  of  night 
In  their  own  chamber,  and  without  a light, 
Listening,  as  he  was  wont,  he  overheard, 
And  learned  the  dreadful  secret,  word  by 
word  ; 

And  hurrying  from  his  castle,  with  a cry 
He  raised  his  hands  to  the  un  pitying  sky, 
Repeating  one  dread  word,  till  bush  and 
tree 

Caught  it,  and  shuddering  answered,  “ Her- 

f ” 

esy! 

Wrapped  in  his  cloak,  his  hat  drawn  o’er 
his  face, 

Now  hurrying  forward,  now  with  lingering 
pace, 

He  walked  all  night  the  alleys  of  his  park. 


With  one  unseen  companion  in  the  dark, 
The  Demon  who  within  him  lay  in  wait 
And  by  his  presence  turned  his  love  to  hate. 
Forever  muttering  in  an  undertone, 

“ Kill ! kill  ! and  let  the  Lord  find  out  his 
own  ! ” 

Upon  the  morrow,  after  early  Mass, 

While  yet  the  dew  was  glistening  on  the 
grass, 

And  all  the  woods  were  musical  with  birds, 
Tlie  old  Hidalgo,  uttering  fearful  words, 
Walked  homeward  with  the  Priest,  and  in 
his  room 

Summoned  his  trembling  daughters  to  their 
doom. 

When  questioned,  with  brief  answers  they 
replied, 

Nor  when  accused  evaded  or  denied ; 
Expostulations,  passionate  appeals, 

All  that  the  human  heart  most  fears  or  feels, 
In  vain  the  Priest  with  earnest  voice  es- 
sayed ; 

In  vain  the  father  threatened,  wept,  and 
prayed  ; 

Until  at  last  he  said,  with  haughty  mien, 

“ The  Holy  Office,  then,  must  intervene ! ” 

And  now  the  Grand  Inquisitor  of  Spain, 
With  all  the  fifty  horsemen  of  his  train, 
His  awful  name  resounding,  like  the  blast 
Of  funeral  trumpets,  as  he  onward  passed, 
Came  to  Valladolid,  and  there  began 
To  harry  the  rich  Jews  with  fire  and  ban. 
To  him  the  Hidalgo  went,  and  at  the  gate 
Demanded  audience  on  affairs  of  state, 

And  in  a secret  chamber  stood  before 
A venerable  graybeard  of  fourscore, 

Dressed  in  the  hood  and  habit  of  a friar  ; 
Out  of  Lis  eyes  flashed  a consuming  tire, 
And  in  his  hand  the  mystic  horn  he  held, 
Which  poison  and  all  noxious  charms  dis- 
pelled. 

He  heard  in  silence  the  Hidalgo’s  tale, 
Then  answered  in  a voice  that  made  him 
quail : 

“Son  of  the  Church!  when  Abraham  of  old 
To  sacrifice  his  only  son  was  told, 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley  nor  protest, 
But  hastened  to  obey  the  Lord’s  behest. 


I1RNR  V IV A DS  IVOR  TH  L ONGFELL  0 W. 


In  him  it  was  accounted  righteousness  ; 
The  Holy  Church  expects  of  thee  no  less  ! " 

A sacred  frenzy  seized  the  father’s  brain, 
And  Mercy  from  that  hour  implored  in  vain. 
Ah  ! who  will  e’er  believe  the  words  I say  ? 
His  daughters  he  accused,  and  the  same  day 
They  both  were  cast  into  the  dungeon's 
gloom, 

That  dismal  antechamber  of  the  tomb, 


423 

Arraigned,  condemned,  and  sentenced  to  the 
flame, 

The  secret  torture  and  the  public  shame. 

Then  to  the  Grand  Inquisitor  once  more 

The  Hidalgo  went  more  eager  than  before, 

And  said  : “ When  Abraham  offered  up  his 
son, 

He  clave  the  wood  wherewith  it  might  be 
done. 


By  his  example  taught,  let  me  too  bring 
Wood  from  the  forest  for  my  offering ! ” 
And  the  deep  voice,  without  a pause,  re- 
plied : 

Son  of  the  Church  ! by  faith  now  justified, 
Complete  thy  sacrifice,  even  as  thou  wilt ; 
The  Church  absolves  thy  conscience  from 
all  guilt ! ” 

Then  this  most  wretched  father  went  his  way 
Into  the  woods,  that  round  his  castle  lay, 
Where  once  his  daughters  in  their  childhood 
played 

With  their  young  mother  in  the  sun  and 
shade. 


Now  all  the  leaves  had  fallen ; the  branches 
bare 

Made  a perpetual  moaning  in  the  air, 

And  screaming  from  their  eyries  overhead 

The  ravens  sailed  athwart  the  sky  of  lead. 

With  his  own  hands  he  lopped  the  boughs 
and  bound 

Fagots,  that  crackled  with  foreboding  sound, 

And  on  his  mules,  caparisoned  and  gay 

With  bells  and  tassels,  sent  them  on  their 
way. 

Then  with  his  mind  on  one  dark  purpose 
bent, 

Again  to  the  Inquisitor  he  went, 


424 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


And  said : “ Behold,  the  fagots  I have 
brought, 

And  now,  lest  my  atonement  be  as  naught, 

Grant  me  one  more  request,  one  last  de- 
sire, — 

With  my  own  hand  to  light  the  funeral 
fire  ! ” 

And  Torquemada  answered  from  his  seat, 

“ Son  of  the  Church  ! Thine  offering  is  com- 
plete ; 

Her  servants  through  all  ages  shall  not  cease 

To  magnify  thy  deed.  Depart  in  peace ! ” 

Upon  the  market-place,  builded  of  stone 

The  scaffold  rose,  whereon  Death  claimed  Ids 
own. 


At  the  four  corners,  in  stern  attitude, 

Four  statues  of  the  Hebrew  Prophets  stood, 
Gazing  with  calm  indifference  in  their  eyes 
Upon  this  place  of  human  sacrifice, 

Round  which  was  gathering  fast  the  eager 
crowd, 

With  clamor  of  voices  dissonant  and  loud, 
And  every  roof  and  window  was  alive 
With  restless  gazers,  swarming  like  a hive. 
The  church-bells  tolled,  the  chant  of  monks 
drew  near, 

Loud  trumpets  stammered  forth  their  notes 
of  fear, 

A line  of  torches  smoked  along  the  street, 
There  was  a stir,  a rush,  a tramp  of  feet, 
And,  with  its  banners  floating  in  the  air, 


Slowly  the  long  procession  crossed  the  square, 
And,  to  the  statues  of  the  Prophets  bound, 
The  victims  stood,  with  fagots  piled  around. 
Then  all  the  air  a blast  of  trumpets  shook, 
And  louder  sang  the  monks  with  bell  and 
book, 


And  the  Hidalgo,  lofty,  stern,  and  proud, 
Lifted  his  torch,  and,  bursting  through  the 
crowd, 

Lighted  in  haste  the  fagots,  and  then  fled, 
Lest  those  imploring  eyes  should  strike  him 
dead  ! 


IIENR  Y WA  DS  WO  Ii  TH  L ON  OF  ELL  O W. 


425 


O pitiless  skies  ! why  did  your  clouds  retain 
For  peasants’  fields  their  Hoods  of  hoarded  rain  ? 
( ) pitiless  earth  ! why  open  no  abyss 
To  bury  in  its  chasm  a crime  like  this  ? 

That  night,  a mingled  column  of  fire  and 
smoke 

From  the  dark  thickets  of  the  forest  broke, 
And,  glaring  o’er  the  landscape  leagues  away, 
Made  all  the  fields  and  hamlets  bright  as  day. 
Wrapped  in  a sheet  of  flame  the  castle  blazed, 
And  as  the  villagers  in  terror  gazed, 

They  saw  the  figure  of  that  cruel  knight 
Lean  from  a window  in  the  turret's  height, 


Ilis  ghastly  face  illumined  with  the  glare, 
His  hands  upraised  above  his  head  in  prayer, 
Till  the  floor  sank  beneath  him,  and  he  fell 
Down  the  black  hollow  of  that  burning  well. 

Three  centuries  and  more  above  his  bones 
Have  piled  the  oblivious  years  like  funeral 
stones  ; 

His  name  has  perished  with  him,  and  no  trace 
Remains  on  earth  of  his  afflicted  race ; 

Rut  Torquemada’s  name,  with  clouds  o’ercast, 
Looms  in  the  distant  landscape  of  the  Past, 
Like  a burnt  tower  upon  a blackened  heath, 
Lit  by  the  fires  of  burning  woods  beneath  ! 


INTERLUDE. 


Thus  closed  the  tale  of  guilt  and  gloom. 
That  cast  upon  each  listener’s  face 
Its  shadow,  and  for  some  brief  space 
Unbroken  silence  filled  the  room. 

The  Jew  was  thoughtful  and  distressed  ; 
Upon  his  memory  thronged  and  pressed 
The  persecution  of  his  race, 

Their  wrongs  and  sufferings  and  dis- 
grace ; 

His  head  was  sunk  upon  his  breast, 

And  from  his  eyes  alternate  came 
Flashes  of  wrath  and  tears  of  shame. 

The  Student  first  the  silence  broke, 

As  one  who  long  has  lain  in  wait, 

With  purpose  to  retaliate, 

And  thus  he  dealt  the  avenging  stroke. 
“In  such  a company  as  this, 


A tale  so  tragic  seems  amiss, 

That  by  its  terrible  control 
O’ermasters  and  drags  down  the  soul 
Into  a fathomless  abyss. 

The  Italian  Tales  that  you  disdain, 
Some  merry  ‘Night  of  Straparole,’ 

Or  Machiavelli’s  ‘ Belphagor,’ 

Would  cheer  us  and  delight  us  more, 
Give  greater  pleasure  and  less  pain 
Than  your  grim  tragedies  of  Spain  ! ” 

And  here  the  Poet  raised  his  hand, 
With  such  enti’eaty  and  command, 

It  stopped  discussion  at  its  birth, 

And  said  : “ The  story  I shall  tell 
Has  meaning  in  it,  if  not  mirth  ; 
Listen,  and  hear  what  once  befell 
The  merry  birds  of  Killingworth  ! ” 


THE  POET’S  TALE. 

THE  BIRDS  OF  KILLINGWORTH. 


It  was  the  season,  when  through  all  the 
land 

The  merle  and  mavis  build,  and  building 
sing 

Those  lovely  lyrics,  written  by  His  hand, 
Whom  Saxon  Caedmon  calls  the  Blithe- 
heart  King  ; 

54 


When  on  the  boughs  the  purple  buds  ex- 
pand, 

The  banners  of  the  vanguard  of  the 
Spring, 

And  rivulets,  rejoicing,  rush  and  leap, 

And  wave  their  fluttering  signals  from  the 
steep. 


426 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


The  robin  and  the  bluebird,  piping  loud, 
Filled  all  the  blossoming  orchards  with 
their  glee  ; 

The  sparrows  chirped  as  if  they  still  were 
proud 

Their  race  in  Holy  Writ  should  mentioned 
be  ; 

And  hungry  crows,  assembled  in  a crowd, 
Clamored  their  piteous  prayer  incessantly. 

Knowing  who  hears  the  ravens  cry,  and  said : 
“ Give  us,  O Lord,  this  day,  our  daily  bread  ! ” 


Across  the  Sound  the  birds  of  passage  sailed, 
Speaking  some  unknown  language  strange 
and  sweet 

Of  tropic  isle  remote,  and  passing  hailed 
The  village  with  the  cheers  of  all  their 
fleet ; 

Or  quarrelling  together,  laughed  and  railed 
Like  foreign  sailors,  landed  in  the  street 
Of  seaport  town,  and  with  outlandish  noise 
Of  oaths  and  gibberish  frightening  girls  and 
boys. 


Thus  came  the  jocund  Spring  in  Killing- 
wortli 

In  fabulous  days,  some  hundred  years  ago; 

And  thrifty  farmers,  as  they  tilled  the  earth. 
Heard  with  alarm  the  cawing  of  the  crow, 

That  mingled  with  the  universal  mirth, 
Cassandra- like,  prognosticating  woe  ; 

They  shook  their  heads,  and  doomed  with 
dreadful  words 

To  swift  destruction  the  whole  race  of  birds. 

And  a town-meeting  was  convened  straight- 
way 


To  set  a price  upon  the  guilty  heads 
Of  these  marauders,  Avho,  in  lieu  of  pay, 
Levied  black-mail  upon  the  garden  beds 
And  cornfields,  and  beheld  without  dismay 
The  awful  scarecrow,  with  his  fluttering 
shreds  ; 

The  skeleton  that  waited  at  their  feast. 
Whereby  their  sinful  pleasure  was  increased. 

Then  from  his  house,  a temple  painted  white, 
With  fluted  columns,  and  a roof  of  red, 
The  Squire  came  forth,  august  and  splendid 
sight ! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


427 


Slowly  descending,  with  majestic  tread, 

Three  flights  of  steps,  nor  looking  left  nor 
right, 

Down  the  long  street  he  walked,  as  one 
who  said, 

“A  town  that  boasts  inhabitants  like  me 

Can  have  no  lack  of  good  society ! ” 

The  Parson,  too,  appeared,  a man  austere, 
The  instinct  of  whose  nature  was  to  kill  ; 

The  wrath  of  God  he  preached  from  year 
to  year, 

And  read,  with  fervor,  Edwards  on  the 
Will ; 

Ilis  favorite  pastime  was  to  slay  the  deer 
In  Summer  on  some  Adirondac  hill  ; 

E’en  now,  while  walking  doAvn  the  rural 
lane, 

He  lopped  the  wayside  lilies  with  his  cane. 

From  the  Academy,  whose  belfry  crowned 
The  hill  of  Science  with  its  vane  of  brass, 

Came  the  Preceptor,  gazing  idly  round, 
Now  at  the  clouds,  and  now  at  the  green 
grass, 

And  all  absorbed  in  reveries  profound 
Of  fair  Almira  in  the  upper  class, 

Who  was,  as  in  a sonnet  he  had  said, 

As  pure  as  water,  and  as  good  as  bread. 

And  next  the  Deacon  issued  from  his  door, 
In  his  voluminous  neck-cloth,  white  as 
snow ; 

A suit  of  sable  bombazine  he  wore ; 

His  form  was  ponderous,  and  his  step  was 
slow ; 

There  never  was  so  wise  a man  before ; 

He  seemed  the  incarnate  “Well,  I told 
you  so  ! 

And  to  perpetuate  his  great  renown 

There  was  a street  named  after  him  in 
town. 

These  came  together  in  the  new  town-hall, 
With  sundry  farmers  from  the  region 
round. 

The  Squire  presided,  dignified  and  tall, 

His  air  impressive  and  his  reasoning 
sound ; 


III  fared  it  with  the  birds,  both  great  and 
small ; 

Hardly  a friend  in  all  that  crowd  they 
found, 

But  enemies  enough,  who  every  one 
Charged  them  with  all  the  crimes  beneath 
the  sun. 

When  they  had  ended,  from  his  place  apart, 
Rose  the  Preceptor,  to  redress  the  wrong, 
And,  trembling  like  a steed  before  the  start, 
Looked  round  bewildered  on  the  expectant 
throng ; 

Then  thought  of  fair  Almira,  and  took  heart 
To  speak  out  what  was  in  him,  clear  and 
strong, 

Alike  regardless  of  their  smile  or  frown, 
And  quite  determined  not  to  be  laughed 
down. 

“ Plato,  anticipating  the  Reviewers, 

Fiom  his  Republic  banished  without  pity 
The  Poets  ; in  this  little  town  of  yours, 
You  put  to  death,  by  means  of  a Commit- 
tee, 

The  ballad-singers  and  the  Troubadours, 
The  street-musicians  of  the  heavenly  city, 
The  birds,  who  make  sweet  music  for  us  all 
In  our  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for  Saul. 

“ The  thrush  that  carols  at  the  dawn  of  day 
From  the  green  steeples  of  the  piny  wood  ; 
The  oriole  in  the  elm  ; the  noisy  jay, 
Jargoning  like  a foreigner  at  his  food  ; 
The  bluebird  balanced  on  some  topmast 
spray, 

Flooding  with  melody  the  neighborhood ; 
Linnet  and  meadow-lark,  and  all  the  throng 
That  dwell  in  nests,  and  have  the  gift  of 
song. 

“You  slay  them  all!  and  wherefore  ? for  the 
gain 

Of  a scant  handful  more  or  less  of  wheat, 
Or  rye,  or  barley,  or  some  other  grain, 
Scratched  up  at  random  by  industrious 
feet, 

Searching  for  worm  or  weevil  after  rain  ! 
Or  a few  cherries,  that  are  not  so  sweet 


428 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


As  are  the  songs  these  uninvited  guests 

Sing  at  their  feast  with  comfortable  breasts. 

“ Do  you  ne’er  think  what  wondrous  beings 
these  ? 

Do  you  ne’er  think  who  made  them,  and 
who  taught 

The  dialect  they  speak,  where  melodies 

Alone  are  the  interpreters  of  thought  ? 

Whose  household  words  are  songs  in  many 
keys, 

Sweeter  than  instrument  of  man  e’er 
caught ! 

Whose  habitations  in  the  tree-tops  even 

Are  half-way  houses  on  the  road  to  heaven  ! 

“ Think,  every  morning  when  the  sun  peeps 
through 

The  dim,  leaf-latticed  windows  of  the 
grove, 

How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 


Their  old,  melodious  madrigals  of  love ! 

And  when  you  think  of  this,  remember 
too 

’T  is  always  morning  somewhere,  and 
above 

The  awakening  continents,  from  shore  to 
shore, 

Somewhere  the  birds  are  singing  evermore. 

“ Think  of  your  woods  and  orchards  without 
birds ! 

Of  empty  nests  that  cling  to  boughs  and 
beams 

As  in  an  idiot’s  brain  remembered  words 
Hang  empty  ’mid  the  cobwebs  of  his 
dreams  ! 

Will  bleat  of  flocks  or  bellowing  of  herds 
Make  up  for  the  lost  music,  when  your 
teams 

Drag  home  the  stingy  harvest,  and  no  more 

The  feathered  gleaners  follow  to  your  door  ! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


429 


“ What ! would  you  rather  see  the  incessant 
stir 

Of  insects  in  the  windrows  of  the  hay, 
And  hear  the  locust  and  the  grasshopper 
Their  melancholy  hurdy-gurdies  play  ? 

Is  this  more  pleasant  to  you  than  the  whir 
Of  meadow-lark,  and  her  sweet  roundelay, 
Or  twitter  of  little  field-fares,  as  you  take 
Your  nooning  in  the  shade  of  bush  and 
brake ? 

“ You  call  them  thieves  and  pillagers ; but 
know, 

They  are  the  winged  wardens  of  your 
farms, 

Who  from  the  cornfields  drive  the  insidious 
foe, 

And  from  your  harvests  keep  a hundred 
harms  ; 

Even  the  blackest  of  them  all,  the  crow, 
Renders  good  service  as  your  man-at-arms, 
Crushing  the  beetle  in  his  coat  of  mail, 
And  crying  havoc  on  the  slug  and  snail. 

“ How  can  I teach  your  children  gentleness, 
And  mercy  to  the  weak,  and  reverence 
For  Life,  which,  in  its  weakness  or  excess, 
Is  still  a gleam  of  God’s  omnipotence, 
Or  Death,  which,  seeming  darkness,  is  no 
less 

The  selfsame  light,  although  averted 
hence, 

When  by  your  laws,  your  actions,  and  your 
speech, 

You  contradict  the  very  things  I teach  ? ” 

With  this  he  closed  ; and  through  the  au- 
dience went 

A murmur,  like  the  rustle  of  dead  leaves  ; 
The  farmers  laughed  and  nodded,  and  some 
bent 

Their  yellow  heads  together  like  their 
sheaves ; 

Men  have  no  faith  in  fine-spun  sentiment 
Who  put  their  trust  in  bullocks  and  in 
beeves. 

The  birds  were  doomed  ; and,  as  the  record 
shows, 

A bounty  offered  for  the  heads  of  crows. 


There  was  another  audience  out  of  reach, 
Who  had  no  voice  nor  vote  in  making 
laws, 

But  in  the  papers  read  his  little  speech, 

And  crowned  his  modest  temples  with  ap- 
plause ; 

They  made  him  conscious,  each  one  more 
than  each, 

He  still  was  victor,  vanquished  in  their 
cause. 

Sweetest  of  all  the  applause  he  won  from 
thee, 

O fair  Almira  at  the  Academy  ! 

And  so  the  dreadful  massacre  began  ; 

O’er  fields  and  orchards,  and  o'er  woodland 
crests, 

The  ceaseless  fusillade  of  terror  ran. 

Dead  fell  the  birds,  with  blood-stains  on 
their  breasts, 

Or  wounded  crept  away  from  sight  of  man, 
While  the  young  died  of  famine  in  their 
nests  ; 

A slaughter  to  be  told  in  groans,  not  words, 

The  very  St.  Bartholomew  of  Birds ! 

The  Summer  came,  and  all  the  birds  were 
dead ; 

The  days  were  like  hot  coals ; the  very 
ground 

Was  burned  to  ashes ; in  the  orchards  fed 
Myriads  of  caterpillars,  and  around 

The  cultivated  fields  and  garden  beds 

Hosts  of  devouring  insects  crawled,  and 
found 

No  foe  to  check  their  march,  till  they  had 
made 

The  land  a desert  without  leaf  or  shade. 

Devoured  by  worms,  like  Herod,  was  the 
town, 

Because,  like  Herod,  it  had  ruthlessly 

Slaughtered  the  Innocents.  From  the  trees 
spun  down 

The  canker-worms  upon  the  passers-by, 

Upon  each  woman’s  bonnet,  shawl,  and  gown, 
Who  shook  them  off  with  just  a little  cry ; 

They  were  the  terror  of  each  favorite  walk, 

The  endless  theme  of  all  the  village  talk. 


430 


TIIE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


The  farmers  grew  impatient,  but  a few 

Confessed  their  error,  and  would  not  com- 
plain, 

For  after  all,  the  best  thing  one  can  do 
When  it  is  raining,  is  to  let  it  rain. 

Then  they  repealed  the  law,  although  they 
knew 

It  would  not  call  the  dead  to  life  again  ; 

As  school-boys,  finding  their  mistake  too  late, 

Draw  a wet  sponge  across  the  accusing  slate. 

That  year  in  Killingworth  the  Autumn  came 
Without  the  light  of  his  majestic  look, 

The  wonder  of  the  falling  tongues  of  flame, 
The  illumined  pages  of  his  Doom’s-Day 
book. 

A few  lost  leaves  blushed  crimson  with  their 
shame, 

And  drowned  themselves  despairing  in  the 
brook, 

While  the  wild  wind  went  moaning  every- 
where, 

Lamenting  the  dead  children  of  the  air  ! 

But  the  next  Spring  a stranger  sight  was 
seen, 

A sight  that  never  yet  by  bard  was  sung, 


As  great  a wonder  as  it  would  have  been 
If  some  dumb  animal  had  found  a tongue ! 
A wagon,  overarched  with  evergreen, 

Upon  whose  boughs  were  wicker  cages  hung, 
All  full  of  singing  birds,  came  down  the  street, 
Filling  the  air  with  music  wild  and  sweet. 

From  all  the  country  round  these  birds  were 
brought, 

By  order  of  the  town,  with  anxious  quest, 
And,  loosened  from  their  wicker  prisons, 
sought 

In  woods  and  fields  the  places  they  loved 
best, 

Singing  loud  canticles,  which  many  thought 
Were  satires  to  the  authorities  addressed, 
While  others,  listening  in  green  lanes,  averred 
Such  lovely  music  never  had  been  heard ! 

But  blither  still  and  louder  carolled  they 
Upon  the  morrow,  for  they  seemed  to  know 
It  was  the  fair  Almira's  wedding-day, 

And  everywhere,  around,  above,  below, 
When  the  Preceptor  bore  his  bride  away, 
Their  songs  burst  forth  in  joyous  overflow, 
And  a new  heaven  bent  over  a new  earth 
Amid  the  sunny  farms  of  Killingworth. 


The  hour  Avas  late  ; the  fire  burned  Ioav, 
The  Landlord’s  eyes  Avere  closed  in  sleep, 
And  near  the  story’s  end  a deep 
Sonorous  sound  at  times  Avas  heard, 

As  Avlien  the  distant  bagpipes  bloAV. 

At  this  all  laughed  ; the  Landlord  stirred, 
As  one  aAvaking  from  a SAVound, 

And,  gazing  anxiously  around, 

Protested  that  he  had  not  slept, 

But  only  shut  his  eyes,  and  kept 
H is  ears  attentive  to  each  Avord. 


FINALE. 

Then  all  arose,  and  said  “ Good  Night.” 
Alone  remained  the  droAvsy  Squire 
To  rake  the  embers  of  the  fire, 

And  quench  the  waning  parlor  light; 
While  from  the  windoAVS,  here  and  there, 
The  scattered  lamps  a moment  gleamed, 
And  the  illumined  hostel  seemed 
The  constellation  of  the  Bear, 

Dowmvard,  athwart  the  misty  air, 

Sinking  and  setting  toward  the  sun. 

Far  off  the  village  clock  struck  one. 


HENR  Y WADS  WOR  TH  L ON  OF  DLL  0 W. 


PRELUDE. 


A cold,  uninterrupted  rain, 

That  washed  each  southern  window-pane, 
And  made  a river  of  the  road ; 

A sea  of  mist  that  overflowed 

The  house,  the  barns,  the  gilded  vane, 

And  drowned  the  upland  and  the  plain, 
Through  which  the  oak-trees,  broad  and  high, 
Like  phantom  ships  went  drifting  by  ; 

And,  hidden  behind  a watery  screen, 

The  sun  unseen,  or  only  seen 
As  a faint  pallor  in  the  sky  ; — 

Thus  cold  and  colorless  and  gray, 

The  morn  of  that  autumnal  day, 

As  if  reluctant  to  begin, 

Dawned  on  the  silent  Sudbury  Inn, 

And  all  the  guests  that  in  it  lay. 

Full  late  they  slept.  They  did  not  hear 
The  challenge  of  Sir  Chanticleer, 

Who  on  the  empty  threshing-floor, 

Disdainful  of  the  rain  outside, 

Was  strutting  with  a martial  stride, 

As  if  upon  his  thigh  he  wore 

The  famous  broadsword  of  the  Squire, 

And  said,  “ Behold  me,  and  admire ! ” 

Only  the  Poet  seemed  to  hear, 

In  drowse  or  dream,  more  near  and  near 
Across  the  border-land  of  sleep 
The  blowing  of  a blithesome  horn, 

That  laughed  the  dismal  day  to  scorn  ; 

A splash  of  hoofs  and  rush  of  wheels 
Through  sand  and  mire  like  stranding  keels, 
As  from  the  road  with  sudden  sweep 
The  Mail  drove  up  the  little  steep, 


And  stopped  beside  the  tavern  door ; 

A moment  stopped,  and  then  again 
With  crack  of  whip  and  bark  of  dog 
Plunged  forward  through  the  sea  of  fog, 
And  all  was  silent  as  before,  — 

All  silent  save  the  dripping  rain. 

Then  one  by  one  the  guests  came  down, 
And  greeted  with  a smile  the  Squire, 
Who  sat  before  the  parlor  fire, 

Reading  the  paper  fresh  from  town. 

First  the  Sicilian,  like  a bird, 

Before  his  form  appeared,  was  heard 
Whistling  and  singing  down  the  stair  ; 
Then  came  the  Student,  with  a look 
As  placid  as  a meadow-brook  ; 

The  Theologian,  still  perplexed 
With  thoughts  of  this  world  and  the 
next ; 

The  Poet  then,  as  one  who  seems 
Walking  in  visions  and  in  dreams ; 

Then  the  Musician,  like  a fair 
Hyperion  from  whose  golden  hair 
The  radiance  of  the  morning  streams ; 
And  last  the  aromatic  Jew 
Of  Alicant,  who,  as  he  threw 
The  door  wide  open,  on  the  air 
Breathed  round  about  him  a perfume 
Of  damask  roses  in  full  bloom, 

Making  a garden  of  the  room. 

The  breakfast  ended,  each  pursued 
The  promptings  of  his  various  mood  ; 
Beside  the  fire  in  silence  smoked 
The  taciturn,  impassive  Jew, 


432 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Lost  in  a pleasant  revery  ; 

While,  by  his  gravity  provoked, 

His  portrait  the  Sicilian  drew, 

And  wrote  beneath  it  “ Edrehi, 

At  the  Red  Horse  in  Sudbury.” 

By  far  the  busiest  of  them  all, 

The  Theologian  in  the  hall 
Was  feeding  robins  in  a cage,  — 

Two  corpulent  and  lazy  birds, 

Vagrants  and  pilferers  at  best, 

If  one  might  trust  the  hostler's  words, 
Chief  instrument  of  their  arrest ; 

Two  poets  of  the  Golden  Age, 

Heirs  of  a boundless  heritage 
Of  fields  and  orchards,  east  and  west, 

And  sunshine  of  long  summer  days, 
Though  outlawed  now  and  dispossessed  ! — 
Such  was  the  Theologian’s  phrase. 

Meanwhile  the  Student  held  discourse 
With  the  Musician,  on  the  source 
Of  all  the  legendary  lore 
Among  the  nations,  scattered  wide 
Like  silt  and  seaweed  by  the  force 
And  fluctuation  of  the  tide  ; 

The  tale  repeated  o’er  and  o’er, 


With  change  of  place  and  change  of  name. 
Disguised,  transformed,  and  yet  the  same 
We  ’ve  heard  a hundred  times  before. 

The  Poet'  at  the  window  mused, 

And  saw,  as  in  a dream  confused, 

The  countenance  of  the  Sun,  discrowned, 
And  haggard  with  a pale  despair, 

And  saw  the  cloud-rack  trail  and  drift 
Before  it,  and  the  ti'ees  uplift 
Their  leafless  branches,  and  the  air 
Filled  with  the  arrows  of  the  rain, 

And  heard  amid  the  mist  below, 

Like  voices  of  distress  and  pain, 

That  haunt  the  thoughts  of  men  insane, 

The  fateful  cawings  of  the  crow. 

Then  down  the  road,  with  mud  besprent, 
And  drenched  with  rain  from  head  to  hoof, 
The  rain-drops  dripping  from  his  mane 
And  tail  as  from  a pent-house  roof, 

A jaded  horse,  his  head  down  bent, 

Passed  slowly,  limping  as  he  went. 

The  young  Sicilian  — who  had  grown 
Impatient  longer  to  abide 
A prisoner,  greatly  mortified 


HKNllY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


133 


To  see  completely  overthrown 
His  plans  for  angling  in  the  brook, 

And,  leaning  o’er  the  bridge  of  stone, 

To  watch  the  speckled  trout  glide  by, 

And  float  through  the  inverted  sky, 

Still  round  and  round  the  baited  hook  — 
Now  paced  the  room  with  rapid  stride, 
And,  pausing  at  the  Poet’s  side, 

Looked  forth,  and  saw  the  wretched  steed, 
And  said  : “ Alas  for  human  greed, 

That  with  cold  hand  and  stony  eye 
Thus  turns  an  old  friend  out  to  die, 

Or  beg  his  food  from  gate  to  gate  ! 

This  brings  a tale  into  my  mind, 


Which,  if  you  are  not  disinclined 
To  listen,  I will  now  relate.” 

All  gave  assent;  all  wished  to  hear, 
Not  without  many  a jest  and  jeer, 
The  story  of  a spavined  steed  ; 

And  even  the  Student  with  the  rest 
Put  in  his  pleasant  little  jest 
Out  of  Malherbe,  that  Pegasus 
Is  but  a horse  that  with  all  speed 
Bears  poets  to  the  hospital ; 

While  the  Sicilian,  self-possessed. 
After  a moment’s  interval 
Began  his  simple  story  thus. 


THE  SICILIAN’S  TALE. 

THE  BELL  OF  ATRI. 


434 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


The  Re  Giovanni,  now  unknown  to  fame, 
So  many  monarchs  since  have  borne  the 
name, 

Had  a great  bell  hung  in  the  market-place, 
Beneath  a roof,  projecting  some  small  space 
By  way  of  shelter  from  the  sun  and  rain. 
Then  rode  he  through  the  streets  with  all 
his  train, 

And,  with  the  blast  of  trumpets  loud  and 
long, 

Made  proclamation,  that  whenever  wrong 
Was  done  to  any  man,  he  should  but  ring 
The  great  bell  in  the  square,  and  he,  the 
King, 

Would  cause  the  Syndic  to  decide  thereon. 
Such  was  the  proclamation  of  King  John. 

How  swift  the  happy  days  in  Atri  sped, 
What  wrongs  were  righted,  need  not  here 
be  said. 

Suffice  it  that,  as  all  things  must  decay, 
The  hempen  rope  at  length  was  worn  away, 
Unravelled  at  the  end,  and,  strand  by  strand, 
Loosened  and  wasted  in  the  ringer’s  hand, 
Till  one,  who  noted  this  in  passing  by, 
Mended  the  rope  with  braids  of  briony, 

So  that  the  leaves  and  tendrils  of  the  vine 
Hung  like  a votive  garland  at  a shrine. 

By  chance  it  happened  that  in  Atri  dwelt 
A knight,  with  spur  on  heel  and  sword  in 
belt, 

Who  loved  to  hunt  the  wild-boar  in  the 
woods, 

Who  loved  his  falcons  with  their  crimson 
hoods,  * 

Who  loved  his  hounds  and  horses,  and  all 
sports 

And  prodigalities  of  camps  and  courts ; — 
Loved,  or  had  loved  them  ; for  at  last, 
grown  old, 

His  only  passion  was  the  love  of  gold. 

He  sold  his  horses,  sold  his  hawks  and 
hounds, 

Rented  his  vineyards  and  his  garden-grounds, 
Kept  but  one  steed,  his  favorite  steed  of  all, 
To  starve  and  shiver  in  a naked  stall, 

And  day  by  day  sat  brooding  in  his  chair, 
Devising  plans  how  best  to  hoard  and  spare. 


At  length  he  said  : “ What  is  the  use  or 
need 

To  keep  at  my  own  cost  this  lazy  steed, 
Eating  his  head  off  in  my  stables  here, 
When  rents  are  low  and  provender  is  dear? 
Let  him  go  feed  upon  the  public  ways  ; 

I want  him  only  for  the  holidays.” 

So  the  old  steed  was  turned  into  the  heat 
Of  the  long,  lonely,  silent,  shadeless  street ; 
And  wandered  in  suburban  lanes  forlorn, 
Barked  at  by  dogs,  and  torn  by  brier  and 
thorn. 

One  afternoon,  as  in  that  sultry  clime 
It  is  the  custom  in  the  summer  time, 

With  bolted  doors  and  window  - shutters 
closed, 

The  inhabitants  of  Atri  slept  or  dozed ; 
When  suddenly  upon  their  senses  fell 
The  loud  alarm  of  the  accusing  bell ! 

The  Syndic  started  from  his  deep  repose, 
Turned  on  his  couch,  and  listened,  and  then 
rose 

And  donned  his  robes,  and  with  reluctant 
pace 

Went  panting  forth  into  the  market-place, 
Where  the  great  bell  upon  its  cross-beam 
swung 

Reiterating  with  persistent  tongue, 

In  half -articulate  jargon,  the  old  song  : 

“ Some  one  hath  done  a wrong,  hath  done  a 
wrong ! ” 

But  ere  he  reached  the  belfry’s  light  arcade 
He  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  beneath  its 
shade, 

No  shape  of  human  form  of  woman  born, 
But  a poor  steed  dejected  and  forlorn, 

Who  with  uplifted  head  and  eager  eye 
Was  tugging  at  the  vines  of  briony. 

“ Domeneddio  ! ” cried  the  Syndic  straight, 

“ This  is  the  Knight  of  Atri’s  steed  of  state  ! 
He  calls  for  justice,  being  sore  distressed, 
And  pleads  his  cause  as  loudly  as  the  best.” 

Meanwhile  from  street  and  lane  a noisy 
crowd 

Had  rolled  together  like  a summer  cloud, 
And  told  the  story  of  the  wretched  beast 
In  five-and-twenty  different  ways  at  least, 


11KNRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


435 


With  much  gesticulation  and  appeal 
To  heathen  gods,  in  their  excessive  zeal. 
The  Knight  was  called  and  questioned  ; in 
reply 

Did  not  confess  the  fact,  did  not  deny ; 
Treated  the  matter  as  a pleasant  jest, 

And  set  at  naught  the  Syndic  and  the  rest, 
Maintaining,  in  an  angry  undertone, 

That  he  should  do  what  pleased  him  with 
his  own. 

And  thereupon  the  Syndic  gravely  read 
The  proclamation  of  the  King  ; then  said  : 
“ Pride  goeth  forth  on  horseback  grand  and 

gay. 

But  cometh  back  on  foot,  and  begs  its  way ; 
Fame  is  the  fragrance  of  heroic  deeds, 

Of  flowers  of  chivalry  and  not  of  weeds  ! 
These  are  familiar  proverbs  ; but  I fear 
They  never  yet  have  reached  your  knightly 
ear. 

What  fair  renown,  what  honor,  what  repute 
Can  come  to  you  from  starving  this  poor 
brute  ? 


He  who  serves  well  and  speaks  not,  merits 
more 

Than  they  who  clamor  loudest  at  the  door. 

Therefore  the  law  decrees  that  as  this  steed 

Served  you  in  youth,  henceforth  you  shall 
take  heed 

To  comfort  his  old  age,  and  to  provide 

Shelter  in  stall,  and  food  and  field  beside." 

The  Knight  withdrew  abashed ; the  people 
all 

Led  home  the  steed  in  triumph  to  his  stall. 

The  King  heard  and  approved,  and  laughed 
in  glee, 

And  cried  aloud : “ Right  well  it  pleaseth 
me  ! 

Church-bells  at  best  but  ring  us  to  the  door ; 

But  go  not  in  to  mass ; my  bell  doth  more  : 

It  cometh  into  court  and  pleads  the  cause 

Of  creatures  dumb  and  unknown  to  the 
laws ; 

Aud  this  shall  make,  in  every  Christian 
clime, 

The  Bell  of  Atri  famous  for  all  time.” 


436 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


INTERLUDE. 


“ Yes,  well  your  story  pleads  the  cause 
Of  those  dumb  mouths  that  have  uo 
speech, 

Only  a cry  from  each  to  each 
In  its  own  kind,  with  its  own  laws; 
Something  that  is  beyond  the  reach 
Of  human  power  to  learn  or  teach,  — 
An  inarticulate  moan  of  pain, 

Like  the  immeasurable  main 
Breaking  upon  an  unknown  beach.” 

Thus  spake  the  Poet  with  a sigh  ; 

Then  added,  with  impassioned  cry, 

As  one  who  feels  the  words  he  speaks, 
The  color  flushing  in  his  cheeks, 

The  fervor  burning  in  his  eye  : 

“Among  the  noblest  in  the  land, 

Though  he  may  count  himself  the  least, 
That  man  I honor  and  revere 
Who  without  favor,  without  fear, 

In  the  great  city  dares  to  stand 
The  friend  of  every  friendless  beast, 

And  tames  with  his  unflinching  hand 
The  brutes  that  wear  our  form  and 
face, 

The  were-wolves  of  the  human  race  ! ” 
Then  paused,  and  waited  with  a frown, 
Like  some  old  champion  of  romance, 
Who,  having  thrown  his  gauntlet  down, 
Expectant  leans  upon  his  lance  ; 

But  neither  Knight  nor  Scpiire  is  found 


To  raise  the  gauntlet  from  the  ground, 
And  try  with  him  the  battle’s  chance. 

“ Wake  from  your  dreams,  O Edrehi  ! 

Or  dreaming  speak  to  us,  and  make 
A feint  of  being  half  awake, 

And  tell  us  what  your  dreams  may  be. 
Out  of  the  hazy  atmosphere 
Of  cloud-land  deign  to  reappear 
Among  us  in  this  Wayside  Inn  ; 

Tell  us  what  visions  and  what  scenes 

Illuminate  the  dark  ravines 

In  which  you  grope  your  way.  Begin  ! ” 

Thus  the  Sicilian  spake.  The  Jew 
Made  no  reply,  but  only  smiled, 

As  men  unto  a wayward  child, 

Not  knowing  what  to  answer,  do. 

As  from  a cavern’s  mouth,  o’ergrown 
With  moss  and  intertangled  vines, 

A streamlet  leaps  into  the  light 
And  murmurs  over  root  and  stone 
In  a melodious  undertone  ; 

Or  as  amid  the  noonday  night 
Of  sombre  and  wind-haunted  pines, 

There  runs  a sound  as  of  the  sea  ; 

So  from  his  bearded  lips  there  came 
A melody  without  a name, 

A song,  a tale,  a history, 

Or  whatsoever  it  may  be, 

Writ  and  recorded  in  these  lines. 


THE  SPANISH  JEW’S  TALE. 

KAMBALU. 


Into  the  city  of  Kambalu, 

By  the  road  that  leadeth  to  Ispahan, 

At  the  head  of  his  dusty  caravan, 

Laden  with  treasure  from  realms  afar, 
Baldacca  and  Kelat  and  Kandahar, 

Rode  the  great  captain  Alan. 

The  Khan  from  his  palace-window  gazed, 


And  saw  in  the  thronging  street  beneath, 
In  the  light  of  the  setting  sun,  that  blazed 
Through  the  clouds  of  dust  by  the  caravan 
raised, 

The  flash  of  harness  and  jewelled  sheath, 
And  the  shining  scimitars  of  the  guard, 
And  the  weary  camels  that  bared  their 
teeth, 


ARTIST:  WALTER  SHIRLAW. 


“ Still  clutching  his  treasure  he  had  died.” 

Kambalu . 


IHt 

Of  !«E 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


43? 


As  they  passed  and  passed  through  the  gates 
unbarred 

Into  the  shade  of  the  palace-yard. 

Thus  into  the  city  of  Kambalu 
Rode  the  great  captain  Alan  ; 

And  lie  stood  before  the  Khan,  and  said : 
The  enemies  of  my  lord  are  dead  ; 

All  the  Kalifs  of  all  the  West 
Bow  and  obey  thy  least  behest ; 

The  plains  are  dark  with  the  mulberry-trees, 


The  weavers  are  busy  in  Samarcand, 

The  miners  are  sifting  the  golden  sand, 
The  divers  plunging  for  pearls  in  the  seas, 
And  peace  and  plenty  are  in  the  land. 

“ Baldacca’s  Kalif,  and  he  alone, 

Rose  in  revolt  against  thy  throne : 

His  treasures  are  at  thy  palace-door, 

With  the  swords  and  the  shawls  and  the 
jewels  he  wore  ; 

Ilis  body  is  dust  o’er  the  desert  blown. 


A mile  outside  of  Baldacca’s  gate 
I left  my  forces  to  lie  in  wait, 

Concealed  by  forests  and  hillocks  of  sand, 
And  forward  dashed  with  a handful  of  men, 


To  lure  the  old  tiger  from  his  den 
Into  the  ambush  I had  planned. 

Ere  we  reached  the  town  the  alarm  was 
spread, 


438 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


For  we  heard  the  sound  of  gongs  from 
within  ; 

And  with  clasli  of  cymbals  and  warlike  din 
The  gates  swung  wide;  and  we  turned  and 
" fled  ; 

And  the  garrison  sallied  forth  and  pursued, 
With  the  gray  old  Kalif  at  their  head, 
And  above  them  the  banner  of  Mohammed: 
So  we  snared  them  all,  and  the  town  was 
subdued. 

“ As  in  at  the  gate  we  rode,  behold, 

A tower  that  is  called  the  Tower  of  Gold  ! 
For  there  the  Kalif  had  hidden  his  wealth, 
Heaped  and  hoarded  and  piled  on  high, 
Like  sacks  of  wheat  in  a granary  ; 

And  thither  the  miser  crept  by  stealth 
To  feel  of  the  gold  that  gave  him  health, 
And  to  gaze  and  gloat  with  his  hungry  eye 
On  jewels  that  gleamed  like  a glowworm’s 
spark, 

Or  the  eyes  of  a panther  in  the  dark. 

“ I said  to  the  Kalif  : ‘ Thou  art  old, 

Thou  hast  no  need  of  so  much  gold. 

Thou  shouldst  not  have  heaped  and  hidden 
it  here, 

Till  the  breath  of  battle  was  hot  and  near, 
But  have  sown  through  the  land  these  use- 
less hoards 

To  spring  into  shining  blades  of  swords, 


And  keep  thine  honor  sweet  and  clear. 
These  grains  of  gold  are  not  grains  of  wheat; 
These  bars  of  silver  thou  canst  not  eat ; 
These  jewels  and  pearls  and  precious  stones 
Cannot  cure  the  aches  in  thy  bones, 

Nor  keep  the  feet  of  Death  one  hour 
From  climbing  the  stairways  of  thy  tower ! ’ 

“ Tlien  into  his  dungeon  I locked  the  drone, 
And  left  him  to  feed  there  all  alone 
In  the  honey-cells  of  his  golden  hive  ; 

Never  a prayer,  nor  a cry,  nor  a groan 
Was  heard  from  those  massive  walls  of  stone, 
Nor  again  was  the  Kalif  seen  alive  ! 

“ When  at  last  we  unlocked  the  door, 

We  found  him  dead  upon  the  floor; 

The  rings  had  dropped  from  his  withered 
hands, 

His  teeth  were  like  bones  in  the  desert 
sands  : 

Still  clutching  his  treasure  he  had  died  ; 
And  as  he  lay  there,  he  appeared 
A statue  of  gold  with  a silver  beard, 

His  arms  outstretched  as  if  crucified.” 

This  is  the  story,  strange  and  true, 

That  the  great  captain  Alau 

Told  to  his  brother  the  Tartar  Khan, 

When  he  rode  that  day  into  Kambalu 
By  the  road  that  leadeth  to  Ispahan. 


INTERLUDE. 


“ I THOUGHT  before  your  tale  began,” 

The  Student  murmured,  “ Ave  should  have 
Some  legend  Avritten  by  Judah  Rav 
In  his  Gemara  of  Babylon  ; 

Or  something  from  the  Gulistan,  — 

The  tale  of  the  Cazy  of  Ilamadan, 

Or  of  that  King  of  Khorasan 
Who  saAV  in  dreams  the  eyes  of  one 
That  had  a hundred  years  been  dead 
Still  moving  restless  in  his  head, 
Undimmed,  and  gleaming  Avith  the  lust 
Of  power,  though  all  the  rest  Avas  dust. 

“ But  lo ! your  glittering  caravan 
On  the  road  that  leadeth  to  Ispahan 


Hath  led  us  farther  to  the  East 
Into  the  regions  of  Cathay. 

Spite  of  your  Kalif  and  his  gold, 
Pleasant  has  been  the  tale  yon 
told, 

And  full  of  color;  that  at  least 
No  one  Avill  cpiestion  or  gainsay. 
And  yet  on  such  a dismal  day 
We  need  a merrier  tale  to  clear 
The  dark  and  heavy  atmosphere. 

So  listen,  Lordlings,  Avhile  I tell, 
Without  a preface,  Avhat  befell 
A simple  cobbler,  in  the  year  — 
No  matter;  it  Avas  long  ago; 

And  that  is  all  A\Te  need  to  know.” 


HENR  Y \VA  DS  IVOR  TH  L ON GFELL  0 IV. 


439 


TIIE  STUDENT’S  TALE. 

THE  COBBLER  OF  HAGENAU. 


I trust  that  somewhere  and  somehow 
You  all  have  heard  of  Hagenau, 

A quiet,  quaint,  and  ancient  town 
Among  the  green  Alsatian  hills, 

A place  of  valleys,  streams,  and  mills, 
Where  Barbarossa’s  castle,  brown 
With  rust  of  centuries,  still  looks  down 
On  the  broad,  drowsy  land  below,  — 

On  shadowy  forests  filled  with  game, 

And  the  blue  river  winding  slow 
Through  meadows,  where  the  hedges  grow 
That  give  this  little  town  its  name. 


It  happened  in  the  good  old  times, 
While  yet  the  Master-singers  filled 
The  noisy  workshop  and  the  guild 
With  various  melodies  and  rhymes, 
That  here  in  Hagenau  there  dwelt 
A cobbler,  — one  who  loved  debate, 
And,  arguing  from  a postulate, 

Would  say  what  others  only  felt ; 

A man  of  forecast  and  of  thrift, 

And  of  a shrewd  and  careful  mind 
In  this  world’s  business,  but  inclined 
Somewhat  to  let  the  next  world  drift. 


Hans  Sachs  with  vast  delight  he  read, 
And  Regenbogen’s  rhymes  of  love, 

For  their  poetic  fame  had  spread 
Even  to  the  town  of  Hagenau  ; 

And  some  Quick  Melody  of  the  Plough, 
Or  Double  Harmony  of  the  Dove 
Was  always  running  in  his  head. 

He  kept,  moreover,  at  his  side, 

Among  his  leathers  and  his  tools, 
“Reynard  the  Fox,”  the  “Ship  of  Fools,” 
Or  “ Eulenspiegel,”  open  wide  ; 


With  these  he  was  much  edified : 

He  thought  them  wiser  than  the  Schools. 

His  good  wife,  full  of  godly  fear, 

Liked  not  these  worldly  themes  to  hear ; 
The  Psalter  was  her  book  of  songs  ; 

The  only  music  to  her  ear 
Was  that  which  to  the  Church  belongs, 
When  the  loud  choir  on  Sunday  chanted, 
And  the  two  angels  carved  in  wood, 

That  by  the  windy  organ  stood, 


440 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Blew  on  their  trumpets  loud  and  clear, 
And  all  the  echoes,  far  and  near, 

Gibbered  as  if  the  church  were  haunted. 

Outside  his  door,  one  afternoon, 

This  humble  votary  of  the  muse 
Sat  in  the  narrow  strip  of  shade 
By  a projecting  cornice  made, 

Mending  the  Burgomaster’s  shoes, 

And  singing  a familiar  tune : — 

“ Our  ingress  into  the  world 
Was  naked  and  bare ; 

Our  progress  through  the  world 
Is  trouble  and  care ; 

Our  egress  from  the  world 

Will  be  nobody  knows  where : 

But  if  we  do  well  here 
We  shall  do  well  there  ; 

And  I could  tell  you  no  more, 

Should  I preach  a whole  year ! ” 

Thus  sang  the  cobbler  at  his  work  ; 

And  with  his  gestures  marked  the  time, 
Closing  together  with  a jerk 
Of  his  waxed  thread  the  stitch  and  rhyme. 
Meanwhile  his  quiet  little  dame 
Was  leaning  o’er  the  window-sill, 

Eager,  excited,  but  mouse-still, 

Gazing  impatiently  to  see 

What  the  great  throng  of  folk  might  be 

That  onward  in  procession  came, 

Along  the  unfrequented  street, 

With  horns  that  blew,  and  drums  that 
beat, 

And  banners  flying,  and  the  flame 
Of  tapers,  and,  at  times,  the  sweet 
Voices  of  nuns  ; and  as  they  sang 
Suddenly  all  the  church-bells  rang. 

In  a gay  coach,  above  the  crowd, 

There  sat  a monk  in  ample  hood, 

Who  with  his  right  hand  held  aloft 
A red  and  ponderous  cross  of  wood, 

To  which  at  times  lie  meekly  bowed. 

In  front  three  horsemen  rode,  and  oft, 
With  voice  and  air  importunate, 

A boisterous  herald  cried  aloud  : 

“ The  grace  of  God  is  at  your  gate  ! ” 

So  onward  to  the  church  they  passed. 


The  cobbler  slowly  turned  his  last, 

And,  wagging  his  sagacious  head, 

Unto  his  kneeling  housewife  said  : 

“ :T  is  the  monk  Tetzel.  I have  heard 
The  cawings  of  that  reverend  bird. 

Don't  let  him  cheat  you  of  your  gold  ; 
Indulgence  is  not  bought  and  sold.” 

The  church  of  Hagenau,  that  night, 

Was  full  of  people,  full  of  light; 

An  odor  of  incense  filled  the  air, 

The  priest  intoned,  the  organ  groaned 
Its  inarticulate  despair ; 

The  candles  on  the  altar  blazed, 

And  full  in  front  of  it  upraised 
The  red  cross  stood  against  the  glare. 
Below,  upon  the  altar-rail 
Indulgences  were  set  to  sale, 

Like  ballads  at  a country  fair. 

A heavy  strong-box,  iron-bound 

And  carved  with  many  a quaint  device, 

Received,  with  a melodious  sound, 

The  coin  that  purchased  Paradise. 

Then  from  the  pulpit  overhead, 

Tetzel  the  monk,  with  fiery  glow, 
Thundered  upon  the  crowd  below. 

“ Good  people  all,  draw  near ! ” he  said  ; 

“ Purchase  these  letters,  signed  and  sealed, 
By  which  all  sins,  though  unrevealed 
And  unrepented,  are  forgiven  ! 

Count  but  the  gain,  count  not  the  loss  ! 
Your  gold  and  silver  are  but  dross, 

And  yet  they  pave  the  way  to  heaven. 

I hear  your  mothers  and  your  sires 
Cry  from  their  purgatorial  fires, 

And  will  ye  not  their  ransom  pay  ? 

0 senseless  people  ! when  the  gate 
Of  heaven  is  open,  will  ye  wait  ? 

Will  ye  not  enter  in  to-day  ? 

To-morrow  it  will  be  too  late  ; 

1 shall  be  gone  upon  my  way. 

Make  haste ! bring  money  while  ye  may ! ” 

The  women  shuddered,  and  turned  pale  ; 
Allured  by  hope  or  driven  by  fear, 

Witli  many  a sob  and  many  a tear, 

All  crowded  to  the  altar-rail. 

Pieces  of  silver  and  of  gold 


IIENR  Y WA  DS  IVOR  TH  L ONGFELL  0 W. 


441 


Into  the  tinkling  strong-box  fell 
Like  pebbles  dropped  into  a well  ; 

And  soon  the  ballads  were  all  sold. 

The  cobbler’s  wife  among  the  rest 
Slipped  into  the  capacious  chest 
A golden  florin  ; then  withdrew, 

Hiding  the  paper  in  her  breast  ; 

And  homeward  through  the  darkness  went 
Comforted,  quieted,  content  ; 

She  did  not  walk,  she  rather  flew, 

A dove  that  settles  to  her  nest, 

When  some  appalling  bird  of  prey 
That  scared  her  has  been  driven  away. 

The  days  went  by,  the  monk  was  gone, 
The  summer  passed,  the  winter  came ; 
Though  seasons  changed,  yet  still  the  same 
The  daily  round  of  life  went  on  ; 

The  daily  round  of  household  care. 

The  narrow  life  of  toil  and  prayer. 

But  in  her  heart  the  cobbler’s  dame 
Had  now  a treasure  beyond  price, 

A secret  joy  without  a name, 

The  certainty  of  Paradise. 

Alas,  alas  ! Dust  unto  dust ! 

Before  the  winter  wore  away, 

Her  body  in  the  churchyard  lay, 


Her  patient  soul  was  with  the  Just! 

After  her  death,  among  the  things 
That  even  the  poor  preserve  with  care,  — 
Some  little  trinkets  and  cheap  rings, 

A locket  with  her  mother’s  hair, 

Her  wedding  gown,  the  faded  flowers 
She  wore  upon  her  wedding  day,  — 
Among  these  memories  of  past  hours, 

That  so  much  of  the  heart  reveal, 

Carefully  kept  and  put  away, 

The  Letter  of  Indulgence  lay 
Folded,  with  signature  and  seal. 

Meanwhile  the  Priest,  aggrieved  and  pained, 
Waited  and  wondered  that  no  word 
Of  mass  or  requiem  he  heard, 

As  by  the  Holy  Church  ordained  : 

Then  to  the  Magistrate  complained, 

That  as  this  woman  had  been  dead 
A week  or  more,  and  no  mass  said, 

It  was  rank  heresy,  or  at  least 
Contempt  of  Church  ; thus  said  the  Priest  ; 
And  straight  the  cobbler  was  arraigned 

He  came,  confiding  in  his  cause, 

But  rather  doubtful  of  the  laws. 

The  Justice  from  his  elbow-chair 


442 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Gave  him  a look  that  seemed  to  say : 

“ Thou  standest  before  a Magistrate, 
Therefore  do  not  prevaricate  ! ” 

Then  asked  him  in  a business  way, 

Kindly  but  cold:  “Is  thy  wife  dead?” 
The  cobbler  meekly  bowed  his  head  ; 

“ She  is,”  came  struggling  from  his  throat 
Scarce  audibly.  The  Justice  wrote 
The  words  down  in  a book,  and  then 
Continued,  as  he  raised  his  pen  ; 

“ She  is ; and  hath  a mass  been  said 
For  the  salvation  of  her  soul? 

Come,  speak  the  truth  ! confess  the  whole  ! ” 
The  cobbler  without  pause  replied  : 

“ Of  mass  or  prayer  there  was  no  need  ; 

For  at  the  moment  when  she  died 
Her  soul  was  with  the  glorified  ! ” 

And  from  his  pocket  with  all  speed 
He  drew  the  priestly  title-deed, 

And  prayed  the  Justice  he  would  read. 

The  Justice  read,  amused,  amazed  ; 

And  as  he  read  his  mirth  increased  ; 

At  times  his  shaggy  brows  he  raised, 

Now  wondering  at  the  cobbler  gazed, 

Now  archly  at  the  angry  Priest. 


“From  all  excesses,  sins,  and  crimes 
Thou  hast  committed  in  past  times 
Thee  I absolve  ! And  furthermore, 
Purified  from  all  earthly  taints, 

To  the  communion  of  the  Saints 
And  to  the  sacraments  restore  ! 

All  stains  of  weakness,  and  all  trace 
Of  shame  and  censure  I efface  ; 

Remit  the  pains  thou  shouldst  endure, 

And  make  thee  innocent  and  pure, 

So  that  in  dying,  unto  thee 
The  gates  of  heaven  shall  open  be  ! 
Though  long  thou  livest,  yet  this  grace 
Until  the  moment  of  thy  death 
Unchangeable  continueth!  ” 

Then  said  he  to  the  Priest:  “I  find 
This  document  is  duly  signed 
Brother  John  Tetzel,  his  own  hand. 

At  all  tribunals  in  the  land 
In  evidence  it  may  be  used; 

Therefore  acquitted  is  the  accused.” 

Then  to  the  cobbler  turned : “ My  friend. 
Pray  tell  me,  didst  thou  ever  read 
‘ Reynard  the  Fox?’” — “Oh  yes,  indeed!”  — 
“ I thought  so.  Don’t  forget  the  end.” 


INTERLUDE. 


“What  was  the  end?  I am  ashamed 
Not  to  remember  Reynard's  fate ; 

I have  not  read  the  book  of  late  ; 

Was  he  not  hanged?”  the  Poet  said. 

The  student  gravely  shook  his  head, 

And  answered  : “ You  exaggerate. 

There  was  a tournament  proclaimed, 

And  Reynard  fought  with  Isegrim 
The  Wolf,  and  having  vanquished  him, 
Rose  to  high  honor  in  the  State, 

And  Keeper  of  the  Seals  was  named  ! ’’ 

At  this  the  gay  Sicilian  laughed : 

“ Fight  fire  with  fire,  and  craft  with  craft ; 
Successful  cunning  seems  to  be 
The  moral  of  your  tale,”  said  he. 

“ Mine  had  a better,  and  the  Jew’s 
Had  none  at  all,  that  I could  see; 

His  aim  was  only  to  amuse.” 


Meanwhile  from  out  its  ebon  case 
His  violin  the  Minstrel  drew, 

And  having  tuned  its  strings  anew, 

Now  held  it  close  in  his  embrace, 

And  poising  in  his  outstretched  hand 
The  bow,  like  a magician’s  wand, 

He  paused,  and  said,  with  beaming  face : 
“ Last  night  my  story  was  too  long  ; 
To-day  I give  you  but  a song, 

An  old  tradition  of  the  North  ; 

But  first,  to  put  you  in  the  mood, 

I will  a little  while  prelude, 

And  from  this  instrument  draw  forth 
Something  by  way  of  overture.” 

He  played ; at  first  the  tones  were  pure 
And  tender  as  a summer  night, 

The  full  moon  climbing  to  her  height, 
The  sob  and  ripple  of  the  seas, 


HENR  Y WADS  WO  A1  TH  L ON  OF  ELL  0 W. 


The  flapping  of  an  idle  sail  ; 

And  then  by  sudden  and  sharp  degrees 
The  multiplied,  wild  harmonies 
Freshened  and  burst  into  a gale  ; 

A tempest  howling  through  the  dark, 

A crash  as  of  some  shipwrecked  bark, 
A loud  and  melancholy  wail. 

Such  was  the  prelude  to  the  tale 
Told  by  the  Minstrel  ; and  at  times 


443 

lie  paused  amid  its  varying  rhymes, 

And  at  each  pause  again  broke  in 
The  music  of  his  violin, 

With  tones  of  sweetness  or  of  fear, 
Movements  of  trouble  or  of  calm, 

Creating  their  own  atmosphere ; 

As  sitting  in  a church  we  hear 
Between  the  verses  of  the  psalm 
The  organ  playing  soft  and  clear, 

Or  thundering  on  the  startled  ear. 


THE  MUSICIAN’S  TALE. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  CAKMILHAN. 

I. 


At  Stralsund,  by  the  Baltic  Sea, 

Within  the  sandy  bar, 

At  sunset  of  a summer’s  day, 

Ready  for  sea,  at  anchor  lay 
The  good  ship  Valdemar. 

The  sunbeams  danced  upon  the  waves, 

And  played  along  her  side  ; 

And  through  the  cabin  windows  streamed 
In  ripples  of  golden  light,  that  seemed 
The  ripple  of  the  tide. 

There  sat  the  captain  with  his  friends, 

Old  skippers  brown  and  hale, 

Who  smoked  and  grumbled  o’er  their  grog, 
And  talked  of  iceberg  and  of  fog, 

Of  calm  and  storm  and  gale. 


And  one  was  spinning  a sailor’s  yarn 
About  Klaboterman, 

The  Kobold  of  the  sea ; a spright 
Invisible  to  mortal  sight, 

Who  o’er  the  rigging  ran. 

Sometimes  he  hammered  in  the  hold, 
Sometimes  upon  the  mast, 

Sometimes  abeam,  sometimes  abaft, 

Or  at  the  bows  he  sang  and  laughed, 
And  made  all  tight  and  fast. 

He  helped  the  sailors  at  their  work, 

And  toiled  with  jovial  din  ; 

He  helped  them  hoist  and  reef  the  sails, 
He  helped  them  stow  the  casks  and  bales, 
And  heave  the  anchor  in. 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


But  woe  unto  the  lazy  louts, 

The  idlers  of  the  crew ; 

Them  to  torment  was  his  delight, 
And  worry  them  by  day  and  night, 
And  pinch  them  black  and  blue. 


And  woe  to  him  whose  mortal  eyes 
Klaboterman  behold. 

It  is  a certain  sign  of  death  ! — 

The  cabin-boy  here  held  his  breath, 
lie  felt  his  blood  run  cold. 


n. 


The  jolly  skipper  paused  awhile, 

And  then  again  began  ; 

There  is  a Spectre  Ship,”  quoth  he, 

A ship  of  the  Dead  that  sails  the  sea, 
And  is  called  the  Carmilhan. 


A ghostly  ship,  with  a ghostly  crew, 

In  tempests  she  appears  ; 

And  before  the  gale,  or  against  the  gale, 
She  sails  without  a rag  of  sail, 

Without  a helmsman  steers. 

She  haunts  the  Atlantic  north  and  south, 
But  mostly  the  mid-sea, 


Where  three  great  rocks  rise  bleak  and  bare 
Like  furnace  chimneys  in  the  air, 

And  are  called  the  Chimneys  Three. 

And  ill  betide  the  luckless  ship 
That  meets  the  Carmilhan  ; 

Over  her  decks  the  seas  will  leap, 

She  must  go  down  into  the  deep, 

And  perish  mouse  and  man.” 

The  captain  of  the  Valdemar 
Laughed  loud  with  merry  heart. 

I should  like  to  see  this  ship,”  said  he  ; 

I should  like  to  find  these  Chimneys  Three 
That  are  marked  down  in  the  chart. 

I have  sailed  right  over  the  spot,”  he  said, 
“With  a good  stiff  breeze  behind, 

When  the  sea  was  blue,  and  the  sky  was 
clear,  — 

You  can  follow  my  course  by  these  pin- 
holes here,  — 

And  never  a rock  could  find.” 

And  then  he  swore  a dreadful  oath, 

Lie  swore  by  the  Kingdoms  Three, 

That,  should  he  meet  the  Carmilhan, 

He  would  run  her  down,  although  he  ran 
Right  into  Eternity  ! 

All  this,  while  passing  to  and  fro, 

The  cabin-boy  had  heard  ; 

He  lingered  at  the  door  to  hear, 

And  drank  in  all  with  greedy  ear, 

And  pondered  every  word. 

He  was  a simple  country  lad, 

But  of  a roving  mind. 

Oh,  it  must  be  like  heaven,”  thought  he, 
Those  far-off  foreign  lands  to  see, 

And  fortune  seek  and  find  ! ” 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


445 


But  in  the  fo'castle,  when  he  heard 
The  mariners  blaspheme, 

He  thought  of  home,  lie  thought  of  God, 
And  his  mother  under  the  church-yard  sod, 
And  wished  it  were  a dream. 


The  cabin  windows  have  grown  blank 
As  eyeballs  of  the  dead  ; 

No  more  the  glancing  sunbeams  burn 
On  the  gilt  letters  of  the  stern, 

But  on  the  figure-head ; 

On  Valdemar  Victorious, 

Who  looketh  with  disdain 
To  see  his  image  in  the  tide 
Dismembered  float  from  side  to  side, 
And  reunite  again. 

“It  is  the  wind,  1 those  skippers  said, 

“ That  swings  the  vessel  so  ; 

It  is  the  wind  ; it  freshens  fast, 

’T  is  time  to  say  farewell  at  last, 

’T  is  time  for  us  to  go.” 

They  shook  the  captain  by  the  hand, 

“ Good  luck  ! good  luck  ! ” they  cried  ; 
Each  face  was  like  the  setting  sun, 

As,  broad  and  red,  they  one  by  one 
Went  o'er  the  vessel's  side. 


One  friend  on  board  that  ship  had  he  ; 

'T  was  the  Klaboterman, 

Who  saw  the  Bible  in  his  chest, 

And  made  a sign  upon  his  breast, 

All  evil  things  to  ban. 

hi. 

The  sun  went  down,  the  full  moon  rose, 
Sei'ene  o’er  field  and  flood  ; 

And  all  the  winding  creeks  and  bays 
And  broad  sea-meadows  seemed  ablaze, 
The  sky  was  red  as  blood. 

The  southwest  wind  blew  fresh  and  fair, 
As  fair  as  wind  could  be  ; 

Bound  for  Odessa,  o'er  the  bar, 

With  all  sail  set,  the  Valdemar 
Went  proudly  out  to  sea. 

The  lovely  moon  climbs  up  the  sky 
As  one  who  walks  in  dreams  ; 

A tower  of  marble  in  her  light, 

A wall  of  black,  a wall  of  white, 

The  stately  vessel  seems. 

Low  down  upon  the  sandy  coast 
The  lights  begin  to  burn  ; 

And  now,  uplifted  high  in  air, 

They  kindle  with  a fiercer  glare, 

And  now  drop  far  astern. 


446 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


The  dawn  appears,  the  land  is  gone, 
The  sea  is  all  around  ; 

Then  on  eacli  hand  low  hills  of  sand 
Emerge  and  form  another  land ; 

She  steereth  through  the  Sound. 

Through  Kattegat  and  Skager-rack 
She  flittetli  like  a ghost ; 

By  day  and  night,  by  night  and  day, 
She  bounds,  she  Hies  upon  her  way 
Along  the  English  coast. 


Cape  Finisterre  is  drawing  near, 

Cape  Finisterre  is  past ; 

Into  the  open  ocean  stream 
She  floats,  the  vision  of  a dream 
Too  beautiful  to  last. 

Suns  rise  and  set,  and  rise,  and  yet 
There  is  no  land  in  sight ; 

The  liquid  planets  overhead 
Burn  brighter  now  the  moon  is  dead, 
And  longer  stays  the  night. 


IV. 


And  now  along  the  horizon’s  edge 
Mountains  of  cloud  uprose, 

Black  as  with  forests  underneath, 

Above,  their  sharp  and  jagged  teeth 
Were  white  as  drifted  snows. 

Unseen  behind  them  sank  the  sun, 

But  flushed  each  snowy  peak 
A little  while  with  rosy  light, 

That  faded  slowly  from  the  sight 
As  blushes  from  the  cheek. 

Black  grew  the  sky,  — all  black,  all  black ; 

The  clouds  were  everywhere  ; 

There  was  a feeling  of  suspense 
In  nature,  a mysterious  sense 
Of  terror  in  the  air. 

And  all  on  board  the  Valdetnar 
Was  still  as  still  could  be  ; 

Save  when  the  dismal  ship-bell  tolled, 

As  ever  and  anon  she  rolled, 

And  lurched  into  the  sea. 

The  captain  up  and  down  the  deck 
Went  striding  to  and  fro; 

Now  watched  the  compass  at  the  wheel, 
Now  lifted  up  his  hand  to  feel 
Which  way  the  wind  might  blow. 

And  now  he  looked  up  at  the  sails, 

And  now  upon  the  deep  ; 

In  every  fibre  of  his  frame 
He  felt  the  storm  before  it  came, 
lie  had  no  thought  of  sleep. 


Eight  bells  ! and  suddenly  abaft, 

With  a great  rush  of  rain, 

Making  the  ocean  white  with  spume, 

In  darkness  like  the  day  of  doom, 

On  came  the  hurricane. 

The  lightning  flashed  from  cloud  to  cloud, 
And  rent  the  sky  in  two ; 

A jagged  flame,  a single  jet 
Of  white  fire,  like  a bayonet, 

That  pierced  the  eyeballs  through. 

Then  all  around  was  dark  again, 

And  blacker  than  before  ; 

But  in  that  single  flash  of  light 
He  had  beheld  a fearful  sight, 

And  thought  of  the  oath  he  swore. 

For  right  ahead  lay  the  Ship  of  the  Dead, 
The  ghostly  Carmilhan ! 

Her  masts  were  stripped,  her  yards  were  bare, 
And  on  her  bowsprit,  poised  in  air, 

Sat  the  Klaboterman. 

Her  crew  of  ghosts  was  all  on  deck 
Or  clambering  up  the  shrouds  ; 

The  boatswain’s  whistle,  the  captain’s  hail 
Were  like  the  piping  of  the  gale, 

And  thunder  in  the  clouds. 

And  close  behind  the  Carmilhan 
There  rose  up  from  the  sea, 

As  from  a foundered  ship  of  stone, 

Three  bare  and  splintered  masts  alone  : 
They  were  the  Chimneys  Three. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


447 


And  onward  dashed  the  Valdemar 
And  leaped  into  the  dark  ; 

A denser  mist,  a colder  blast, 

A little  shudder,  and  she  had  passed 
Right  through  the  Phantom  Bark. 

She  cleft  in  twain  the  shadowy  hulk, 
But  cleft  it  unaware  ; 

As  when,  careering  to  her  nest, 

The  sea-gull  severs  with  her  breast 
The  unresisting  air. 

Again  the  lightning  flashed  ; again 
They  saw  the  Carmilhan, 

Whole  as  before  in  hull  and  spar  ; 
But  now  on  board  of  the  Valdemar 
Stood  the  Klaboterman. 


And  they  all  knew  their  doom  was  sealed  ; 

They  knew  that  death  was  near ; 

Some  prayed  who  never  prayed  before, 
And  some  they  wept,  and  some  they  swore, 
And  some  were  mute  with  fear. 

Then  suddenly  there  came  a shock, 

And  louder  than  wind  or  sea 
A cry  burst  from  the  crew  on  deck, 

As  she  dashed  and  crashed,  a hopeless  wreck. 
Upon  the  Chimneys  Three. 

The  storm  and  night  were  passed,  the  light 
To  streak  the  east  began ; 

The  cabin-boy,  picked  up  at  sea, 

Survived  the  wreck,  and  only  he, 

To  tell  of  the  Carmilhan. 


448 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


INTERLUDE. 


When  the  long  murmur  of  applause 
That  greeted  the  Musician’s  lay 
Had  slowly  buzzed  itself  away, 

And  the  long  talk  of  Spectre  Ships 
That  followed  died  upon  their  lips 
And  came  unto  a natural  pause, 

“These  tales  you  tell  are  one  and  all 
Of  the  Old  World,”  the  Poet  said, 

“ Flowers  gathered  from  a crumbling  wall, 
Dead  leaves  that  rustle  as  they  fall  ; 

Let  me  present  you  in  their  stead 
Something  of  our  New  England  earth, 

A tale,  which,  though  of  no  great 
worth, 

Has  still  this  merit,  that  it  yields 
A certain  freshness  of  the  fields, 

A sweetness  as  of  home-made  bread.” 

The  Student  answered  : “ Be  discreet  ; 
For  if  the  flour  be  fresh  and  sound, 

And  if  the  bread  be  light  and  sweet, 


Who  caretli  in  what  mill  ’t  was  ground, 
Or  of  what  oven  felt  the  heat, 

Unless,  as  old  Cervantes  said, 

You  are  looking  after  better  bread 
Than  any  that  is  made  of  wheat  ? 

You  know  that  people  nowadays 
To  what  is  old  give  little  praise  ; 

All  must  be  new  in  prose  and  verse  , 

They  want  hot  bread,  or  something  worse, 
Fresh  every  morning,  and  half  baked  ; 

The  wholesome  bread  of  yesterday, 

Too  stale  for  them,  is  thrown  away, 

Nor  is  their  thirst  with  water  slaked.” 

As  oft  we  see  the  sky  in  May 
Threaten  to  rain,  and  yet  not  rain, 

The  Poet’s  face,  before  so  gay, 

Was  clouded  with  a look  of  pain, 

But  suddenly  brightened  up  again  ; 

And  without  further  let  or  stay 
He  told  his  tale  of  yesterday. 


THE  POET'S  TALE. 

LADY  WENTWORTH. 


One  hundred  years  ago,  and  something 
more, 

In  Queen  Street,  Portsmouth,  at  her  tavern 
door, 

Neat  as  a pin,  and  blooming  as  a rose, 
Stood  Mistress  Stavers  in  her  furbelows. 
Just  as  her  cuckoo-clock  was  striking  nine. 
Above  her  head,  resplendent  on  the  sign, 
The  portrait  of  the  Earl  of  Halifax, 

In  scarlet  coat  and  periwig  of  flax, 
Surveyed  at  leisure  all  her  varied  charms, 
Her  cap,  her  bodice,  her  white  folded  arms, 
And  half  resolved,  though  he  was  past  his 
prime, 

And  rather  damaged  by  the  lapse  of  time, 
To  fall  down  at  her  feet,  and  to  declare 
The  passion  that  had  driven  him  to  de- 
spair. 


For  from  his  lofty  station  he  had  seen 
Stavers,  her  husband,  dressed  in  bottle- 
green, 

Drive  his  new  Flying  Stage-coach,  four  in 
hand, 

Down  the  long  lane,  and  out  into  the  land, 
And  knew  that  he  was  far  upon  the  way 
To  Ipswich  and  to  Boston  on  the  Bay  ! 

Just  then  the  meditations  of  the  Earl 
Were  interrupted  by  a little  girl, 
Barefooted,  ragged,  with  neglected  hair. 
Eyes  full  of  laughter,  neck  and  shoulders 
bare, 

A thin  slip  of  a girl,  like  a new  moon, 

Sure  to  be  rounded  into  beauty  soon, 

A creature  men  would  worship  and  adore, 
Though  now  in  mean  habiliments  she  bore 


I/ENRT  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


449 


A pail  of  water,  dripping  through  the 
street, 

And  bathing,  as  she  went,  her  naked  feet. 

It  was  a pretty  picture,  full  of  grace,  — 

The  slender  form,  the  delicate,  thin  face  ; 

The  swaying  motion,  as  she  hurried  by  ; 

The  shining  feet,  the  laughter  in  her  eye, 

That  o'er  her  face  in  ripples  gleamed  and 
glanced, 

As  in  her  pail  the  shifting  sunbeam  danced; 

And  with  uncommon  feelings  of  delight 

The  Earl  of  Halifax  beheld  the  sight. 

Not  so  Dame  Stavers,  for  he  heard  her 
say 

These  words,  or  thought  he  did,  as  plain 
as  day  : 

“ O Martha  Hilton  ! Fie  ! how  dare  you  go 

About  the  town  half  dressed,  and  looking 


At  which  the  gypsy  laughed,  and  straight 
replied ; 

“ No  matter  how  I look  ; I yet  shall  ride 
In  my  own  chariot,  ma’am.”  And  on  the 
child 

The  Earl  of  Halifax  benignly  smiled, 

As  with  her  heavy  burden  she  passed  on, 
Looked  back,  then  turned  the  corner,  and 
was  gone. 

What  next,  upon  that  memorable  day, 
Arrested  his  attention  was  a gay 
And  brilliant  equipage,  that  flashed  and 
spun, 

The  silver  harness  glittering  in  the  sun, 
Outriders  with  red  jackets,  lithe  and  lank. 
Pounding  the  saddles  as  they  rose  and 
sank, 

While  all  alone  within  the  chariot  sat 
A portly  person  with  three-cornered  hat, 


57 


450 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


A crimson  velvet  coat,  head  high  in  air, 
Gold-headed  cane,  and  nicely  powdered 
hair, 

And  diamond  buckles  sparkling  at  his  knees, 
Dignified,  stately,  florid,  much  at  ease. 
Onward  the  pageant  swept,  and  as  it 
passed, 

Fair  Mistress  Stavers  courtesied  low  and 
fast  ; 

For  this  was  Governor  Wentworth,  driving 
down 

To  Little  Harbor,  just  beyond  the  town, 
Where  his  Great  House  stood  looking  out 
to  sea, 

A goodly  place,  where  it  was  good  to  be. 

It  was  a pleasant  mansion,  an  abode 
Near  and  yet  hidden  from  the  great  high- 
road, 

Sequestered  among  trees,  a noble  pile, 
Baronial  and  colonial  in  its  style  ; 

Gables  and  dormer-windows  everywhere, 
And  stacks  of  chimneys  rising  high  in 
air,  — 

Pandsean  pipes,  on  which  all  winds  that 
blew 

Made  mournful  music  the  whole  winter 
through. 

Within,  unwonted  splendors  met  the  eye, 
Panels,  and  floors  of  oak,  and  tapestry; 
Carved  chimney-pieces,  where  on  brazen 
dogs 

Revelled  and  roared  the  Christmas  fires  of 
logs  ; 

Doors  opening  into  darkness  unawares, 
Mysterious  passages,  and  flights  of  stairs; 
And  on  the  walls,  in  heavy  gilded  frames 
The  ancestral  Wentworths  with  Old-Scrip- 
ture names. 

Such  was  the  mansion  where  the  great  man 
dwelt, 

A widower  and  childless  ; and  he  felt 
The  loneliness,  the  uncongenial  gloom, 

That  like  a presence  haunted  every  room  ; 
For  though  not  given  to  weakness,  he  could 
feel 

The  pain  of  wounds,  that  ache  because  they 
heal. 


The  years  came  and  the  years  went,  — 
seven  in  all, 

And  passed  in  cloud  and  sunshine  o’er  the 
Hall ; 

The  dawns  their  splendor  through  its  cham- 
bers shed, 

The  sunsets  flushed  its  western  windows 
red  ; 

The  snow  was  on  its  roofs,  the  wind,  the 
rain  ; 

Its  woodlands  were  in  leaf  and  bare  again  ; 
Moons  waxed  and  waned,  the  lilacs  bloomed 
and  died, 

In  the  broad  river  ebbed  and  flowed  the 
tide, 

Ships  went  to  sea,  and  ships  came  home 
from  sea, 

And  the  slow  years  sailed  by  and  ceased 
to  be. 

And  all  these  years  had  Martha  Hilton 
served 

In  the  Great  House,  not  wholly  unob- 
served : 

By  day,  by  night,  the  silver  crescent  grew. 
Though  hidden  by  clouds,  her  light  still 
shining  through  ; 

A maid  of  all  work,  whether  coarse  or  fine, 
A servant  who  made  service  seem  divine  ! 
Through  her  each  room  was  fair  to  look 
upon  ; 

The  mirrors  glistened,  and  the  brasses  shone, 
The  very  knocker  on  the  outer  door, 

If  she  but  passed,  was  brighter  than  be- 
fore. 

And  now  the  ceaseless  turning  of  the  mill 
Of  time,  that  never  for  an  hour  stands 
still, 

Ground  out  the  Governor’s  sixtieth  birth- 
day, 

And  powdered  his  brown  hair  with  silver- 
gray. 

The  robin,  the  forerunner  of  the  spring, 
The  bluebird  with  his  jocund  carolling, 

The  restless  swallows  building  in  the  eaves, 
The  golden  buttercups,  the  grass,  the  leaves, 
The  lilacs  tossing  in  the  winds  of  May, 

All  welcomed  this  majestic  holiday ! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


451 


He  gave  a splendid  banquet,  served  on  plate, 
Such  as  became  the  Governor  of  the  State, 
Who  represented  England  and  the  King, 

And  was  magnificent  in  everything, 
lie  had  invited  all  his  friends  and  peers, — 
The  Pepperels,  the  Langdons,  and  the  Lears, 
The  Sparhawks,  the  Penhallows,  and  the 
rest ; 

For  why  repeat  the  name  of  every  guest? 
But  I must  mention  one  in  bands  and 
gown, 

The  rector  there,  the  Reverend  Arthur  Brown 
Of  the  Established  Church ; with  smiling  face 
He  sat  beside  the  Governor  and  said  grace  ; 
And  then  the  feast  went  on,  as  others  do, 
But  ended  as  none  other  I e’er  knew. 

When  they  had  drunk  the  King,  with  many 
a cheer, 

The  Governor  whispered  in  a servant’s  ear, 
Who  disappeared,  and  presently  there  stood 
Within  the  room,  in  perfect  womanhood, 

A maiden,  modest  and  yet  self-possessed, 
Youthful  and  beautiful,  and  simply  dressed. 
Can  this  be  Martha  Hilton  ? It  must  be ! 
Yes,  Martha  Hilton,  and  no  other  she ! 
Dowered  with  the  beauty  of  her  twenty 
years, 

How  ladylike,  how  queenlike  she  appears  ; 
The  pale,  thin  crescent  of  the  days  gone  by 


Is  Dian  now  in  all  her  majesty  ! 

Yet  scarce  a guest  perceived  that  she  was 
there, 

Until  the  Governor,  rising  from  his  chair, 
Played  slightly  with  his  ruffles,  then  looked 
down, 

And  said  unto  the  Reverend  Arthur  Brown  : 
“ This  is  my  birthday  : it  shall  likewise  be 
My  wedding-day  ; and  you  shall  marry  me  ! ” 

The  listening  guests  were  greatly  mystified, 
None  more  so  than  the  rector,  who  replied : 
“ Marry  you  ? Yes,  that  were  a pleasant 
task, 

Your  Excellency ; but  to  whom  ? I ask.” 
The  Governor  answered:  “To  this  lady 
here  ; ” 

And  beckoned  Martha  Hilton  to  draw  near. 
She  came  and  stood,  all  blushes,  at  his  side. 
The  rector  paused.  The  impatient  Gov- 
ernor cried : 

“ This  is  the  lady ; do  you  hesitate  ? 

Then  I command  you  as  Chief  Magistrate.” 
The  rector  read  the  service  loud  and  clear : 
“ Dearly  beloved,  we  are  gathered  here,” 
And  so  on  to  the  end.  At  his  command 
On  the  fourth  finger  of  her  fair  left  hand 
The  Governor  placed  the  ring  ; and  that 
was  all  : 

Martha  was  Lady  Wentworth  of  the  Hall ! 


452 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


INTERLUDE. 


Well  pleased  the  audience  heard  the  tale. 
The  Theologian  said  : “ Indeed, 

To  praise  you  there  is  little  need  ; 

One  almost  hears  the  farmer's  flail 
Thresh  out  your  wheat,  nor  does  there 
fail 

A certain  freshness,  as  you  said, 

And  sweetness  as  of  home-made  bread. 

But  not  less  sweet  and  not  less  fresh 
Are  many  legends  that  I know, 

Writ  by  the  monks  of  long-ago, 

Who  loved  to  mortify  the  flesh, 

So  that  the  soul  might  purer  grow, 

And  rise  to  a diviner  state  ; 

And  one  of  these  — perhaps  of  all 
Most  beautiful  — I now  recall, 

And  with  permission  will  narrate ; 


Hoping  thereby  to  make  amends 
For  that  grim  tragedy  of  mine, 

As  strong  and  black  as  Spanish  wine, 

I told  last  night,  and  wish  almost 
It  had  remained  untold,  my  friends  ; 

For  Torquemada’s  awful  ghost 
Came  to  me  in  the  dreams  I dreamed, 
And  in  the  darkness  glared  and  gleamed 
Like  a great  light-house  on  the  coast.” 

The  Student  laughing  said:  “Far  more 
Like  to  some  dismal  fire  of  bale 
Flaring  portentous  on  a hill ; 

Or  torches  lighted  on  a shore 
By  wreckers  in  a midnight  gale. 

No  matter ; be  it  as  you  will, 

Only  go  forward  with  your  tale.” 


THE  THEOLOGIAN'S  TALE. 

THE  LEGEND  BEAUTIFUL. 


Hadst  tliou  stayed,  I must  have  fled  ! 
That  is  what  the  Vision  said. 

In  his  chamber  all  alone, 

Kneeling  on  the  floor  of  stone, 

Prayed  the  Monk  in  deep  contrition 
For  his  sins  of  indecision, 

Prayed  for  greater  self-denial 
In  temptation  and  in  trial  ; 

It  was  noonday  by  the  dial, 

And  the  Monk  was  all  alone. 

Suddenly,  as  if  it  lightened, 

An  unwonted  splendor  brightened 
All  within  him  and  without  him 
In  that  narrow  cell  of  stone  ; 

And  he  saw  the  Blessed  Vision 
Of  our  Lord,  with  light  Elysian 
Like  a vesture  wrapped  about  Him, 
Like  a garment  round  Him  thrown. 

Not  as  crucified  and  slain, 

Not  in  agonies  of  pain, 


Not  with  bleeding  hands  and  feet, 

Did  the  Monk  his  Master  see  ; 

But  as  in  the  village  street, 

In  the  house  or  harvest-field, 

Halt  and  lame  and  blind  He  healed, 

When  He  walked  in  Galilee. 

In  an  attitude  imploring, 

Hands  upon  his  bosom  crossed, 

Wondering,  worshipping,  adoring, 

Knelt  the  Monk  in  rapture  lost. 

Lord,  he  thought,  in  heaven  that  reignest, 
Who  am  I,  that  thus  thou  deignest 
To  reveal  thyself  to  me  ? 

Who  am  I,  that  from  the  centre 
Of  thy  glory  thou  shouldst  enter 
This  poor  cell,  my  guest  to  be  ? 

Then  amid  his  exaltation, 

Loud  the  convent  bell  appalling. 

From  its  belfry  calling,  calling. 

Rang:  through  court  and  corridor 
With  persistent  iteration 


IIENR  Y WA  DS  IVOR  TH  L ON G FELL  O W. 


45 


He  had  never  heard  before. 

It  was  now  the  appointed  hour 
When  alike  in  shine  or  shower, 
Winter’s  cold  or  summer’s  heat, 

To  the  convent  portals  came 
All  the  blind  and  halt  and  lame, 
All  the  beggars  of  the  street, 

For  their  daily  dole  of  food 
Dealt  them  by  the  brotherhood ; 
And  their  almoner  was  he 
Who  upon  his  bended  knee, 

Rapt  in  silent  ecstasy 
Of  divinest  self-surrender. 

Saw  the  Vision  and  the  Splendor. 

Deep  distress  and  hesitation 
Mingled  with  his  adoration  ; 

Should  he  go  or  should  he  stay  ? 


Should  he  leave  the  poor  to  wait 
Hungry  at  the  convent  gate, 

Till  the  Vision  passed  away  ? 
Should  lie  slight  his  radiant  guest, 
Slight  this  visitant  celestial, 

For  a crowd  of  nigged,  bestial 
Beggars  at  the  convent  gate  ? 
Would  the  Vision  there  remain? 
Would  the  Vision  come  again? 
Then  a voice  within  his  breast 
Whispered,  audible  and  clear 
As  if  to  the  outward  ear : 

Do  thy  duty ; that  is  best ; 

Leave  unto  thy  Lord  the  rest ! ” 

Straightway  to  his  feet  he  started, 
And  with  longing  look  intent 
On  the  Blessed  Vision  bent, 


454 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Slowly  from  his  cell  departed, 

Slowly  on  his  errand  went. 

At  the  gate  the  poor  were  waiting, 
Looking  through  the  iron  grating, 
With  that  terror  in  the  eye 
That  is  only  seen  in  those 
Who  amid  their  wants  and  woes 
Hear  the  sound  of  doors  that  close, 
And  of  feet  that  pass  them  by ; 
Grown  familiar  with  disfavor, 

Grown  familiar  with  the  savor 
Of  the  bread  by  which  men  die  ! 

But  to-day,  they  knew  not  why, 
Like  the  gate  of  Paradise 
Seemed  the  convent  gate  to  rise, 

Like  a sacrament  divine 
Seemed  to  them  the  bread  and  wine. 
In  his  heart  the  Monk  was  praying, 
Thinking  of  the  homeless  poor, 

What  they  suffer  and  endure  ; 

What  we  see  not,  what  we  see  ; 

And  the  inward  voice  was  saying : 

‘ Whatsoever  thing  thou  doest 
To  the  least  of  mine  and  lowest, 
That  thou  doest  unto  me  ! ” 

Unto  me  ! but  had  the  Vision 
Come  to  him  in  beggar's  clothing, 


Come  a mendicant  imploring, 

Would  he  then  have  knelt  adoring, 

Or  have  listened  with  derision, 

And  have  turned  away  with  loath- 
ing? 

Thus  his  conscience  put  the  question, 
Full  of  troublesome  suggestion, 

As  at  length,  with  hurried  pace, 
Towards  his  cell  he  turned  his  face, 
And  beheld  the  convent  bright 
With  a supernatural  light, 

Like  a luminous  cloud  expanding 
Over  floor  and  wall  and  ceiling, 

But  he  paused  with  awe-struck  feel- 
ing 

At  the  threshold  of  his  door, 

For  the  Vision  still  was  standing 
As  he  left  it  there  before, 

When  the  convent  bell  appalling. 

From  its  belfry  calling,  calling, 
Summoned  him  to  feed  the  poor. 
Through  the  long  hour  intervening 
It  had  waited  his  return, 

And  he  felt  his  bosom  burn, 
Comprehending  all  the  meaning. 

When  the  Blessed  Vision  said, 

“ Hadst  thou  stayed,  I must  have  fled  ! ” 


INTERLUDE. 


All  praised  the  Legend  more  or  less  ; 
Some  liked  the  moral,  some  the  verse  ; 
Some  thought  it  better,  and  some  worse 
fl'lian  other  legends  of  the  past  ; 

Until,  with  ill-concealed  distress 
At  all  their  cavilling,  at  last 
The  Theologian  gravely  said  : 

“ The  Spanish  proverb,  then,  is  right ; 
Consult  your  friends  on  what  you  do, 
And  one  will  say  that  it  is  white, 

And  others  say  that  it  is  red." 

And  “ Amen  ! ” quoth  the  Spanish  Jew. 

“ Six  stories  told  ! We  must  have  seven, 
A cluster  like  the  Pleiades, 

And  lo  ! it  happens,  as  with  these, 


That  one  is  missing  from  our  heaven. 
Where  is  the  Landlord  ? Bring  him  lien 
Let  the  Lost  Pleiad  reappear.” 

Thus  the  Sicilian  cried,  and  went 
Forthwith  to  seek  his  missing  star, 

But  did  not  find  him  in  the  bar, 

A place  that  landlords  most  frequent, 

Nor  yet  beside  the  kitchen  fire, 

Nor  up  the  stairs,  nor  in  the  hall ; 

It  was  in  vain  to  ask  or  call, 

There  were  no  tidings  of  the  Squire. 

So  he  came  back  with  downcast  head, 
Exclaiming:  “Well,  our  bashful  host 
Hath  surely  given  up  the  ghost. 


HENR  Y WADS  WO II TH  L ON G FELL  ()  i\ 


Another  proverb  says  the  dead 
Can  tell  no  tales  ; and  that  is  true. 
It  follows,  then,  that  one  of  you 
Must  tell  a story  in  his  stead. 

You  must,”  he  to  the  Student  said, 

“ Who  know  so  many  of  the  best, 
And  tell  them  better  than  the  rest.” 


455 

Straight,  by  these  flattering  words  be- 
guiled, 

The  Student,  happy  as  a child 
When  he  is  called  a little  man, 

Assumed  the  double  task  imposed, 

And  without  more  ado  unclosed 
Ilis  smiling  lips,  and  thus  began. 


THE  STUDENT’S  SECOND  TALE. 

THE  BARON  OF  ST.  CASTINE. 


Baron  Castine  of  St.  Castine 
Has  left  his  chateau  in  the  Pyrenees, 

And  sailed  across  the  western  seas. 

When  he  went  away  from  his  fair  demesne 
The  birds  were  building,  the  woods  were 
green  ; 

And  now  the  winds  of  winter  blow 
Round  the  turrets  of  the  old  chateau. 

The  birds  are  silent  and  unseen, 

The  leaves  lie  dead  in  the  ravine, 

And  the  Pyrenees  are  white  with  snow. 


Ilis  father,  lonely,  old,  and  gray, 

Sits  by  the  fireside  day  by  day, 

Thinking  ever  one  thought  of  care  ; 

o o 

Through  the  southern  windows,  narrow  and 
tall, 

The  sun  shines  into  the  ancient  hall, 

And  makes  a glory  round  his  hair. 

The  house-dog,  stretched  beneath  his  chair, 
Groans  in  his  sleep,  as  if  in  pain, 

Then  wakes,  and  yawns,  and  sleeps  again, 
So  silent  is  it  everywhere, — 


456 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


So  silent  you  can  hear  the  mouse 
Run  and  rummage  along  the  beams 
Behind  the  wainscot  of  the  wall ; 

And  the  old  man  rouses  from  his  dreams, 
And  wanders  restless  through  the  house, 
As  if  he  heard  strange  voices  call. 

His  footsteps  echo  along  the  floor 
Of  a distant  passage,  and  pause  awhile ; 
He  is  standing  by  an  open  door 
Looking  long,  with  a sad,  sweet  smile, 
Into  the  room  of  his  absent  son. 

There  is  the  bed  on  which  he  lay, 

There  are  the  pictures  bright  and  gay, 
Horses  and  hounds  and  sun-lit  seas ; 

There  are  his  powder-flask  and  gun, 


And  his  hunting-knives  in  shape  of  a fan 
The  chair  by  the  window  where  he  sat. 
With  the  clouded  tiger-skin  for  a mat, 
Looking  out  on  the  Pyrenees, 

Looking  out  on  Mount  Marbore 
And  the  Seven  Valleys  of  Lavedan. 

Ah  me  ! he  turns  away  and  sighs  ; 

There  is  a mist  before  his  eyes. 


At  night,  whatever  the  weather  be, 

Wind  or  rain  or  starry  heaven, 

Just  as  the  clock  is  striking  seven, 

Those  who  look  from  the  windows  see 
The  village  Curate,  with  lantern  and  maid, 
Come  through  the  gateway  from  the  park 
And  cross  the  courtyard  damp  and  dark,  — 
A ring  of  light  in  a ring  of  shade. 


HE  NR  Y WADS  WO R Til  /,  ON GFEL L 0 W. 


457 


And  now  at  the  old  man’s  side  he  stands, 
His  voice  is  cheery,  his  heart  expands, 

He  gossips  pleasantly,  by  the  blaze 
Of  the  fire  of  fagots,  about  old  days, 

And  Cardinal  Mazarin  and  the  Fronde, 
And  the  Cardinal’s  nieces  fair  and  fond, 
And  what  they  did,  and  what  they  said, 
When  they  heard  his  Eminence  was  dead. 

And  after  a pause  the  old  man  says, 

His  mind  still  coming  back  again 
To  the  one  sad  thought  that  haunts  his 
brain, 

“ Are  there  any  tidings  from  over  sea  ? 

Ah,  why  has  that  wild  boy  gone  from  me  ? ” 
And  the  Curate  answers,  looking  down, 
Harmless  and  docile  as  a lamb, 

“ Young  blood  ! young  blood  ! It  must  so 
be  ! ” 

And  draws  from  the  pocket  of  his  gown 
A handkerchief  like  an  oriflamb, 

And  wipes  his  spectacles,  and  they  play 
Their  little  game  of  lansquenet 
In  silence  for  an  hour  or  so, 

Till  the  clock  at  nine  strikes  loud  and  clear 
From  the  village  lying  asleep  below, 

And  across  the  courtyard,  into  the  dark 
Of  the  winding  pathway  in  the  park, 
Curate  and  lantern  disappear, 

And  darkness  reigns  in  the  old  chateau. 

The  ship  has  come  back  from  over  sea, 

She  has  been  signalled  from  below, 

And  into  the  harbor  of  Bordeaux 
She  sails  with  her  gallant  company. 

But  among  them  is  nowhere  seen 
The  brave  young  Baron  of  St.  Castine ; 

He  hath  tarried  behind,  I ween, 

In  the  beautiful  land  of  Acadie  ! 

And  the  father  paces  to  and  fro 
Through  the  chambers  of  the  old  chateau, 
Waiting,  waiting  to  hear  the  hum 
Of  wheels  on  the  road  that  runs  below, 

Of  servants  hurrying  here  and  there, 

The  voice  in  the  courtyard,  the  step  on 
the  stair, 

Waiting  for  some  one  who  doth  not  come! 
But  letters  there  are,  which  the  old  man 
reads 

58 


To  the  Curate,  when  he  comes  at  night, 
Word  by  word,  as  an  acolyte 
Repeats  his  prayers  and  tells  his  beads ; 
Letters  full  of  the  rolling  sea, 

Full  of  a young  man’s  joy  to  be 
Abroad  in  the  world,  alone  and  free  ; 

Full  of  adventures  and  wonderful  scenes 
Of  hunting  the  deer  through  forests  vast 
In  the  royal  grant  of  Pierre  du  Gast; 

Of  nights  in  the  tents  of  the  Tarratines ; 
Of  Madocawando  the  Indian  chief, 

And  his  daughters,  glorious  as  queens, 

And  beautiful  beyond  belief ; 

And  so  soft  the  tones  of  their  native 
tongue, 

The  words  are  not  spoken,  they  are  sung  ! 

And  the  Curate  listens,  and  smiling  says  : 
“ Ah  yes,  dear  friend  ! in  our  young  days 
We  should  have  liked  to  hunt  the  deer 
All  day  amid  those  forest  scenes, 

And  to  sleep  in  the  tents  of  the  Tarratines ; 
But  now  it  is  better  sitting  here 
Within  four  walls,  and  without  the  fear 
Of  losing  our  hearts  to  Indian  queens  ; 

For  man  is  fire  and  woman  is  tow, 

And  the  Somebody  comes  and  begins  to 
blow.” 

Then  a gleam  of  distrust  and  vague  surmise 
Shines  in  the  father’s  gentle  eyes, 

As  fire-light  on  a window-pane 
Glimmers  and  vanishes  again  ; 

But  naught  he  answers ; he  only  sighs, 
And  for  a moment  bows  his  head; 

Then,  as  their  custom  is,  they  play 
Their  little  game  of  lansquenet, 

And  another  day  is  with  the  dead. 

Another  day,  and  many  a day 
And  many  a week  and  month  depart, 
When  a fatal  letter  wings  its  way 
Across  the  sea,  like  a bird  of  prey, 

And  strikes  and  tears  the  old  man’s  heart. 
Lo ! the  young  Baron  of  St.  Castine, 

Swift  as  the  wind  is,  and  as  wild, 

Has  married  a dusky  Tarratine, 

Has  married  Madocawando’s  child  ! 

The  letter  drops  from  the  father’s  hand  ; 
Though  the  sinews  of  his  heart  are  wrung, 


458 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


"He  utters  no  cry,  he  breathes  no  prayer, 
No  malediction  falls  from  his  tongue  ; 
But  his  stately  figure,  erect  and  grand. 
Bends  and  sinks  like  a column  of  sand 
In  the  whirlwind  of  his  great  despair. 
Dying,  yes,  dying ! His  latest  breath 
Of  parley  at  the  door  of  death 
Is  a blessing  on  his  wayward  son. 

Lower  and  lower  on  his  breast 
Sinks  his  gray  head  ; he  is  at  rest ; 

No  longer  he  waits  for  any  one. 

For  many  a year  the  old  chateau 
Lies  tenantless  and  desolate  ; 

Rank  grasses  in  the  courtyard  grow, 
About  its  gables  caws  the  crow ; 

Only  the  porter  at  the  gate 
Is  left  to  guard  it,  and  to  wait 
The  coming  of  the  rightful  heir ; 

No  other  life  or  sound  is  there  ; 

No  more  the  Curate  comes  at  night, 

No  more  is  seen  the  unsteady  light, 
Threading  the  alleys  of  the  park  ; 

The  windows  of  the  hall  are  dark, 

The  chambers  dreary,  cold,  and  bare! 


At  length,  at  last,  when  the  winter  is  past, 
And  birds  are  building,  and  woods  are 
green, 

With  flying  skirts  is  the  Curate  seen 
Speeding  along  the  woodland  way, 
Humming  gayly,  “ No  day  is  so  long 
But  it  comes  at  last  to  vesper-song.” 

He  stops  at  the  porter’s  lodge  to  say 
That  at  last  the  Baron  of  St.  Castine 
Is  coming  home  with  his  Indian  queen, 

Is  coming  without  a week’s  delay ; 

And  all  the  house  must  be  swept  and 
clean, 

And  all  things  set  in  good  array ! 

And  the  solemn  porter  shakes  his  head  ; 
And  the  answer  he  makes  is  : “ Lackaday  ! 
We  will  see,  as  the  blind  man  said ! ” 

Alert  since  first  the  day  began, 

The  cock  upon  the  village  church 
Looks  northward  from  his  airy  perch, 

As  if  beyond  the  ken  of  man 
To  see  the  ships  come  sailing  on, 

And  pass  the  Isle  of  Oleron, 

And  pass  the  Tower  of  Cordouan. 


UK  NR  Y WA  DS  IVOR  Til  L ONGFELL  0 W. 


459 


In  the  church  below  is  cold  in  clay 
The  heart  that  would  have  leaped  for  joy  — 
O tender  heart  of  truth  and  trust ! — 

To  see  the  coming  of  that  day  ; 

In  the  church  below  the  lips  are  dust ; 
Dust  are  the  hands,  and  dust  the  feet 
That  would  have  been  so  swift  to  meet 
The  coining  of  that  wayward  boy. 

At  night  the  front  of  the  old  chateau 
Is  a blaze  of  light  above  and  below  ; 

There ’s  a sound  of  wheels  and  hoofs  in  the 
street, 

A cracking  of  whips,  and  scamper  of  feet, 
Bells  are  ringing,  and  horns  are  blown, 
And  the  Baron  hath  come  again  to  his  own. 
The  Curate  is  waiting  in  the  hall, 

Most  eager  and  alive  of  all 
To  welcome  the  Baron  and  Baroness ; 

But  his  mind  is  full  of  vague  distress, 

For  he  hath  read  in  Jesuit  books 
Of  those  children  of  the  wilderness, 

And  now,  good,  simple  man  ! he  looks 
To  see  a painted  savage  stride 
Into  the  room,  with  shoulders  bare, 

And  eagle  feathers  in  her  hair, 

And  around  her  a robe  of  panther’s  hide. 

Instead,  he  beholds  with  secret  shame 
A form  of  beauty  undefined, 

A loveliness  without  a name, 

Not  of  degree,  but  more  of  kind  ; 

Nor  bold  nor  shy,  nor  short  nor  tall. 

But  a new  mingling  of  them  all. 

Yes,  beautiful  beyond  belief, 

Transfigured  and  transfused,  he  sees 
The  lady  of  the  Pyrenees, 

The  daughter  of  the  Indian  chief. 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  her  hair 
The  gold-bronze  color  of  the  skin 
Seems  lighted  by  a fire  within, 

As  when  a burst  of  sunlight  shines 
Beneath  a sombre  grove  of  pines,  — 

A dusky  splendor  in  the  air. 

The  two  small  hands,  that  now  are  pressed 
In  his,  seem  made  to  be  caressed, 

They  lie  so  warm  and  soft  and  still, 

Like  birds  half  hidden  in  a nest, 

Trustful,  and  innocent  of  'ill. 


And  all ! lie  cannot  believe  his  ears 
When  her  melodious  voice  he  hears 
Speaking  his  native  Gascon  tongue  ; 

'Phe  words  she  utters  seem  to  be 
Part  of  some  poem  of  Goudouli, 

They  are  not  spoken,  they  are  sung ! 

And  the  Baron  smiles,  and  says,  “ You  see, 
I told  you  but  the  simple  truth  ; 

Ah,  you  may  trust  the  eyes  of  youth  ! ” 

Down  in  the  village  day  by  day 
The  people  gossip  in  their  way, 

And  stare  to  see  the  Baroness  pass 
On  Sunday  morning  to  early  Mass  ; 

And  when  she  kneeletli  down  to  pray, 
They  wonder,  and  whisper  together,  and  say 
“ Surely  this  is  no  heathen  lass  ! ” 

And  in  course  of  time  they  learn  to  bless 
The  Baron  and  the  Baroness. 

And  in  course  of  time  the  Curate  learns 
A secret  so  dreadful,  that  by  turns 
He  is  ice  and  fire,  he  freezes  and  burns. 
The  Baron  at  confession  hath  said, 

That  though  this  woman  be  his  wife, 

He  hath  wed  her  as  the  Indians  wed. 

He  hath  bought  her  for  a gun  and  a knife  ! 
And  the  Curate  replies  : “ O profligate, 

O Prodigal  Son  ! return  once  more 
To  the  open  arms  and  the  open  door 
Of  the  Church,  or  ever  it  be  too  late. 
Thank  God,  thy  father  did  not  live 
To  see  what  he  could  not  forgive  ; 

On  thee,  so  reckless  and  perverse, 

He  left  his  blessing,  not  his  curse. 

But  the  nearer  the  dawn  the  darker  the 
night, 

And  by  going  wrong  all  things  come  right ; 
Things  have  been  mended  that  were  worse, 
And  the  worse,  the  nearer  they  are  to  mend. 
For  the  sake  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Thou  shalt  be  wed  as  Christians  wed, 

And  all  things  come  to  a happy  end.” 

O sun,  that  followest  the  night, 

In  yon  blue  sky,  serene  and  pure, 

And  pourest  thine  impartial  light 
Alike  on  mountain  and  on  moor. 

Pause  for  a moment  in  thy  course, 


460 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


And  bless  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride ! 
O Gave,  that  from  thy  hidden  source 
In  yon  mysterious  mountain-side 
Pursuest  thy  wandering  way  alone, 

And  leaping  down  its  steps  of  stone, 
Along  the  meadow-lands  demure 
Stealest  away  to  the  Adour, 

Pause  for  a moment  in  thy  course 
To  bless  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride ! 

The  choir  is  singing  the  matin  song, 

The  doors  of  the  church  are  opened  wide, 


ddie  people  crowd,  and  press,  and  throng 
To  see  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 

They  enter  and  pass  along  the  nave ; 

They  stand  upon  the  father's  grave  ; 

The  bells  are  ringing  soft  and  slow ; 

The  living  above  and  the  dead  below 
Give  their  blessing  on  one  and  twain  ; 

The  warm  wind  blows  from  the  hills  of 
Spain, 

The  birds  are  building,  the  leaves  are  green, 
And  Baron  Castine  of  St.  Castine 
Hath  come  at  last  to  his  own  again. 


FINALE. 


“ Nunc  plaudite  ! ” the  Student  cried, 

When  he  had  finished;  “now  applaud, 

As  Roman  actors  used  to  say 
At  the  conclusion  of  a play;” 

And  rose,  and  spread  his  hands  abroad, 
And  smiling  bowed  from  side  to  side, 

As  one  who  bears  the  palm  away. 

And  generous  was  the  applause  and  loud, 
But  less  for  him  than  for  the  sun, 

That  even  as  the  tale  was  done 
Burst  from  its  canopy  of  cloud, 

And  lit  the  landscape  with  the  blaze 
Of  afternoon  on  autumn  days, 

And  filled  the  room  with  light,  and  made 
The  fire  of  logs  a painted  shade. 

A sudden  wind  from  out  the  west 
Blew  all  its  trumpets  loud  and  shrill ; 

The  windows  rattled  with  the  blast, 

The  oak-trees  shouted  as  it  passed, 

And  straight,  as  if  by  fear  possessed, 

The  cloud  encampment  on  the  hill 


Broke  up,  and  fluttering  flag  and  tent 
Vanished  into  the  firmament, 

And  down  the  valley  fled  amain 
The  rear  of  the  retreating  rain. 

Only  far  up  in  the  blue  sky 
A mass  of  clouds,  like  drifted  snow 
Suffused  with  a faint  Alpine  glow, 

Was  heaped  together,  vast  and  high, 

On  which  a shattered  rainbow  hung, 

Not  rising  like  the  ruined  arch 
Of  some  aerial  aqueduct, 

But  like  a roseate  garland  plucked 
From  an  Olympian  god,  and  flung 
Aside  in  his  triumphal  march. 

Like  prisoners  from  their  dungeon  gloom, 
Like  birds  escaping  from  a snare, 

Like  school-boys  at  the  hour  of  play, 

All  left  at  once  the  pent-up  room, 

And  rushed  into  the  open  air ; 

And  no  more  tales  were  told  that  day. 


HENR  Y W A DS  WOR  77/  L ON  GFELL  0 IK 


461 


PRELUDE. 


The  evening  came  ; the  golden  vane 
A moment  in  the  sunset  glanced, 

Then  darkened,  and  then  gleamed  again, 
As  from  the  east  the  moon  advanced 
And  touched  it  with  a softer  light ; 
While  underneath,  with  flowing  mane, 
Upon  the  sign  the  Red  Horse  pranced. 
And  galloped  forth  into  the  night. 

But  brighter  than  the  afternoon 
That  followed  the  dark  day  of  rain, 

And  brighter  than  the  golden  vane 
That  glistened  in  the  rising  moon, 
Within,  the  ruddy  fire-light  gleamed  ; 

And  every  separate  window-pane, 

Backed  by  the  outer  darkness,  showed 
A mirror,  where  the  flamelets  gleamed 
And  flickered  to  and  fro,  and  seemed 
A bonfire  lighted  in  the  road. 

Amid  the  hospitable  glow, 

Like  an  old  actor  on  the  stage, 

With  the  uncertain  voice  of  age, 

The  singing  chimney  chanted  low 
The  homely  songs  of  long  ago. 

The  voice  that  Ossian  heard  of  yore, 
When  midnight  winds  were  in  his  hall : 
A ghostly  and  appealing  call, 

A sound  of  days  that  are  no  more  ! 

And  dark  as  Ossian  sat  the  Jew, 

And  listened  to  the  sound,  and  knew 
The  passing  of  the  airy  hosts, 

The  gray  and  misty  cloud  of  ghosts 
In  their  interminable  flight ; 


And  listening  muttered  in  his  beard, 

With  accent  indistinct  and  weird, 

“Who  are  ye,  children  of  the  Night?” 

Beholding  his  mysterious  face, 

“ Tell  me,”  the  gay  Sicilian  said, 

“ Why  was  it  that  in  breaking  bread 
At  supper,  you  bent  down  your  head 
And,  musing,  paused  a little  space, 

As  one  who  says  a silent  grace?” 

The  Jew  replied,  with  solemn  air, 

“ I said  the  Manichaean’s  prayer. 

It  was  his  faith,  — perhaps  is  mine, — 
That  life  in  all  its  forms  is  one, 

And  that  its  secret  conduits  run 
Unseen,  but  in  unbroken  line, 

From  the  great  fountain-head  divine 
Through  man  and  beast,  through  grain  and 
grass. 

Howe’er  we  struggle,  strive,  and  cry, 

From  death  there  can  be  no  escape, 

And  no  escape  from  life,  alas ! 

Because  we  cannot  die,  but  pass 
From  one  into  another  shape: 

It  is  but  into  life  we  die. 

“ Therefore  the  Manichsean  said 
This  simple  prayer  on  breaking  bread, 

Lest  he  with  hasty  hand  or  knife 
Might  wound  the  incarcerated  life, 

The  soul  in  things  that  we  call  dead : 

1 1 did  not  reap  thee,  did  not  bind  thee, 

I did  not  thrash  thee,  did  not  grind 
thee, 


462 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Nor  did  I in  the  oven  bake  thee  ! 

It  was  not  I,  it  was  another 

Did  these  things  unto  thee,  O brother  ; 

I only  have  thee,  hold  thee,  break  thee  ! ’ ” 

“ That  birds  have  souls  I can  concede,” 

The  Poet  cried,  with  glowing  cheeks ; 

“ The  flocks  that  from  their  beds  of  reed 
Uprising  north  or  southward  fly, 

And  flying  write  upon  the  sky 
The  biforked  letter  of  the  Greeks, 

As  hath  been  said  by  Rucellai ; 

All  birds  that  sing  or  chirp  or  cry, 

Even  those  migratory  bands, 

The  minor  poets  of  the  air, 

The  plover,  peep,  and  sanderling, 

That  hardly  can  be  said  to  sing, 

But  pipe  along  the  barren  sands,  — 

All  these  have  souls  akin  to  ours ; 

So  hath  the  lovely  race  of  flowers : 


Thus  much  I grant,  but  nothing  more. 

The  rusty  hinges  of  a door 
Are  not  alive  because  they  creak  ; 

This  chimney,  with  its  dreary  roar, 

These  rattling  windows,  do  not  speak  ! ” 

“ To  me  they  speak,”  the  Jew  replied ; 

“ And  in  the  sounds  that  sink  and  soar, 

I hear  the  voices  of  a tide 

That  breaks  upon  an  unknown  shore!” 

Here  the  Sicilian  interfered: 

“ That  was  your  dream,  then,  as  you  dozed 
A moment  since,  with  eyes  half-closed, 
And  murmured  something  in  your  beard.” 
The  Hebrew  smiled,  and  answered,  “ Nay ; 
Not  that,  but  something  very  near ; 

Like,  and  yet  not  the  same,  may  seem 
The  vision  of  my  waking  dream  ; 

Before  it  wholly  dies  away, 

Listen  to  me,  and  you  shall  hear,” 


THE  SPANISH  JEW'S  TALE. 

AZEAEL. 


King  Solomon,  before  his  palace  gate 
At  evening,  on  the  pavement  tessellate 
\\  bis  walking  with  a stranger  from  the  East, 
Arrayed  in  rich  attire  as  for  a feast, 

The  mighty  Runjeet-Sing,  a learned  man, 
And  Rajah  of  the  realms  of  Hindostan. 
And  as  they  walked  the  guest  became  aware 
Of  a white  figure  in  the  twilight  air, 
Gazing  intent,  as  one  who  with  surprise 
His  form  and  features  seemed  to  recognize ; 
And  in  a whisper  to  the  king  he  said: 

“ What  is  yon  shape,  that,  pallid  as  the  dead, 
Is  watching  me,  as  if  he  sought  to  trace 
In  the  dim  light  the  features  of  my  face?” 

The  king  looked,  and  replied : “ I know 
him  well ; 

It  is  the  Angel  men  call  Azrael, 

’Tis  the  Death  Angel ; what  hast  thou  to 
fear?” 

And  the  guest  answered  : “ Lest  he  should 
come  near, 

And  speak  to  me,  and  take  away  my  breath ! 


Save  me  from  Azrael,  save  me  from  death  ! 

0 king,  that  hast  dominion  o'er  the  wind, 
Bid  it  arise  and  bear  me  hence  to  Ind.” 

The  king  gazed  upward  at  the  cloudless  sky, 
Whispered  a word,  and  raised  his  hand  on 
high, 

And  lo  ! the  signet-ring  of  clirysoprase 
On  his  uplifted  finger  seemed  to  blaze 
With  hidden  fire,  and  rushing  from  the  west 
There  came  a mighty  wind,  and  seized  the 
guest 

And  lifted  him  from  earth,  and  on  they 
passed, 

His  shining  garments  streaming  in  the  blast, 
A silken  banner  o’er  the  walls  upreared, 

A purple  cloud,  that  gleamed  and  disap- 
peared. 

Then  said  the  Angel,  smiling  : “If  this  man 
Be  Rajah  Runjeet-Sing  of  Hindostan, 

Thou  hast  done  well  in  listening  to  his 
prayer ; 

1 was  upon  my  way  to  seek  him  there.” 


HENR  Y WADS  W 0 Ii  TH  L ON G FELL  0 W. 


463 


INTERLUDE. 


“ O Edrehi,  forbear  to-night 
Your  ghostly  legends  of  affright, 

And  let  the  Talmud  rest  in  peace  ; 
Spare  us  your  dismal  tales  of  death 
That  almost  take  away  one's  breath ; 
So  doing,  may  your  tribe  increase.” 

T1  ms  the  Sicilian  said;  then  went 
And  on  the  spinet’s  rattling  keys 
Played  Marianina,  like  a breeze 
From  Naples  and  the  Southern  seas, 
That  brings  us  the  delicious  scent 
Of  citron  and  of  orange  trees, 

And  memories  of  soft  days  of  ease 
At  Capri  and  Amalfi  spent. 

“ Not  so,”  the  eager  Poet  said  ; 

“ At  least,  not  so  before  I tell 
The  story  of  my  Azrael, 

An  angel  mortal  as  ourselves, 


Which  in  an  ancient  tome  I found 
Upon  a convent’s  dusty  shelves, 

Chained  with  an  iron  chain,  and  bound 
In  parchment,  and  with  clasps  of  brass, 
Lest  from  its  prison,  some  dark  day, 

It  might  be  stolen  or  steal  away, 

While  the  good  friars  were  singing  mass. 

“ It  is  a tale  of  Charlemagne, 

When  like  a thunder-cloud,  that  lowers 
And  sweeps  from  mountain-crest  to  coast, 
With  lightning  flaming  through  its  show- 
ers, 

He  swept  across  the  Lombard  plain, 
Beleaguering  with  his  warlike  train 
Pavia,  the  country’s  pride  and  boast, 

The  City  of  the  Hundred  Towers.” 

Thus  heralded  the  tale  began, 

And  thus  in  sober  measure  ran. 


464 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


THE  POET'S  TALE. 


CHARLEMAGNE. 


Olger  the  Dane  and  Desiderio, 

King  of  the  Lombards,  on  a lofty  tower 
Stood  gazing  northward  o’er  the  rolling  plains, 
League  after  league  of  harvests,  to  the  foot 
Of  the  snow-crested  Alps,  and  saw  approach 
A mighty  army,  thronging  all  the  roads 
That  led  into  the  city.  And  the  King- 
Said  unto  Olger,  who  had  passed  his  youth 
As  hostage  at  the  court  of  France,  and  knew 
The  Emperor’s  form  and  face : “ Is  Charle- 
magne 

Among  that  host  ? ” And  Olger  answered : 
» No.” 


And  still  the  innumerable  multitude 
Flowed  onward  and  increased,  until  the  King 
Cried  in  amazement : “ Surely  Charlemagne 
Is  coming  in  the  midst  of  all  these  knights ! ” 
And  Olger  answered  slowly:  “No;  not  yet; 

He  will  not  come  so  soon.”  Then  much  dis- 
turbed 

King  Desiderio  asked:  “What  shall  we  do, 
If  he  approach  with  a still  greater  army?” 
And  Olger  answered:  “When  he  shall  ap- 
pear, 

You  will  behold  what  manner  of  man  he  is ; 
But  what  will  then  befall  us  I know  not.” 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONG  FELLOW. 


465 


Then  came  the  guard  that  never  knew  re- 
pose, 

The  Paladins  of  France ; and  at  the  sight 
The  Lombard  King  o’ercome  with  terror 
cried  : 

Tins  must  be  Charlemagne!”  and  as  be- 
fore 

Did  Olger  answer  : “ No  ; not  yet,  not  yet.” 

And  then  appeared  in  panoply  complete 
The  Bishops  and  the  Abbots  and  the  Priests 
Of  the  imperial  chapel,  and  the  Counts  ; 
And  Desiderio  could  no  more  endure 
The  light  of  day,  nor  yet  encounter  death, 
But  sobbed  aloud  and  said ; “ Let  us  go 
down 

And  hide  us  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 
Far  from  the  sight  and  anger  of  a foe 
So  terrible  as  this  ! ” And  Olger  said : 
When  you  behold  the  harvests  in  the  fields 
Shaking  with  fear,  the  Po  and  the  Ticino 
Lashing  the  city  walls  with  iron  waves, 
Then  may  you  know  that  Charlemagne  is 
come.” 

And  even  as  he  spake,  in  the  northwest, 
Lo ! there  uprose  a black  and  threatening 
cloud, 

Out  of  whose  bosom  flashed  the  light  of 
arms 


Upon  the  people  pent  up  in  the  city; 

A light  more  terrible  than  any  darkness, 
And  Charlemagne  appeared  ; — a Man  of 
Iron  ! 

His  helmet  was  of  iron,  and  his  gloves 
Of  iron,  and  his  breastplate  and  his  greaves 
And  tassets  were  of  iron,  and  his  shield. 

In  his  left  hand  he  held  an  iron  spear, 

In  his  right  hand  his  sword  invincible. 

The  horse  he  rode  on  had  the  strength  of 
iron, 

And  color  of  iron.  All  who  went  before  him, 
Beside  him  and  behind  him,  his  whole  host, 
Were  armed  with  iron,  and  their  hearts 
within  them 

Were  stronger  than  the  armor  that  they 
wore. 

The  fields  and  all  the  roads  were  filled  with 
iron, 

And  points  of  iron  glistened  in  the  sun 
And  shed  a terror  through  the  city  streets. 
This  at  a single  glance  Olger  the  Dane 
Saw  from  the  tower,  and  turning  to  the  king 
Exclaimed  in  haste  : “ Behold  ! this  is  the 
man 

You  looked  for  with  such  eagerness ! ” and 
then 

Fell  as  one  dead  at  Desiderio’s  feet. 


INTERLUDE. 


Well  pleased  all  listened  to  the  tale, 
That  drew,  the  Student  said,  its  pith 
And  marrow  from  the  ancient  myth 
Of  some  one  with  an  iron  flail; 

Or  that  portentous  Man  of  Brass 
Hephsestus  made  in  days  of  yore, 

Who  stalked  about  the  Cretan  shore, 

And  saw  the  ships  appear  and  pass, 

And  threw  stones  at  the  Argonauts, 
Being  filled  with  indiscriminate  ire 
That  tangled  and  perplexed  his  thoughts ; 
But,  like  a hospitable  host, 

When  strangers  landed  on  the  coast, 
Heated  himself  red-hot  with  fire, 

And  hugged  them  in  his  arms,  and 
pressed 

Their  bodies  to  his  burning  breast. 


The  Poet  answered  : “ No,  not  thus 
The  legend  rose;  it  sprang  at  first 
Out  of  the  hunger  and  the  thirst 
In  all  men  for  the  marvellous. 

And  thus  it  filled  and  satisfied 
The  imagination  of  mankind, 

And  this  ideal  to  the  mind 
Was  truer  than  historic  fact. 

Fancy  enlarged  and  multiplied 
The  terrors  of  the  awful  name 
Of  Charlemagne,  till  he  became 
Armipotent  in  every  act, 

And,  clothed  in  mystery,  appeared 

Not  what  men  saw,  but  what  they  feared. 

“ Besides,  unless  my  memory  fail, 

Your  some  one  with  an  iron  flail 


466 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Is  not  an  ancient  myth  at  all, 

But  comes  much  later  on  the  scene 
As  Talus  in  the  ‘ Faerie  Queene,’ 

The  iron  groom  of  Artegall, 

Who  threshed  out  falsehood  and  deceit, 
And  truth  upheld,  and  righted  wrong, 
And  was,  as  is  the  swallow,  fleet, 

And  as  the  lion  is,  was  strong.” 

The  Theologian  said : “ Perchance 
Your  chronicler  in  writing  this 
Had  in  his  mind  the  ‘ Anabasis,’ 

Where  Xenophon  describes  the  advance 
Of  Artaxerxes  to  the  fight  ; 

At  first  the  low  gray  cloud  of  dust, 
And  then  a blackness  o’er  the  fields 
As  of  a passing  thunder-gust, 


Then  flash  of  brazen  armor  bright, 

And  ranks  of  men,  and  spears  up-thrust, 
Bowmen  and  troops  with  wicker  shields, 
And  cavalry  equipped  in  Avhite, 

And  chariots  ranged  in  front  of  these 
With  scythes  upon  their  axle-trees. 

To  this  the  Student  answered:  “Well, 

I also  have  a tale  to  tell 
Of  Charlemagne  ; a tale  that  throws 
A softer  light,  more  tinged  with  rose, 
Than  your  grim  apparition  cast 
Upon  the  darkness  of  the  past. 

Listen,  and  hear  in  English  rhyme 
What  the  good  Monk  of  Lauresheim 
Gives  as  the  gossip  of  his  time, 

In  mediaeval  Latin  prose.” 


THE  STUDENT’S  TALE. 

EMMA  AND  EGINHARD. 


When  Alcuin  taught  the  sons  of  Charle- 
magne, 

In  the  free  schools  of  Aix,  how  kings  should 
reign, 

And  with  them  taught  the  children  of  the 
poor 

How  subjects  should  be  patient  and  en- 
dure, 

He  touched  the  lips  of  some,  as  best  befit, 
With  honey  from  the  hives  of  Holy  Writ; 
Others  intoxicated  with  the  wine 
Of  ancient  history,  sweet  but  less  divine  ; 
Some  with  the  wholesome  fruits  of  grammar 
fed ; 

Others  with  mysteries  of  the  stars  o’erhead, 
That  hang  suspended  in  the  vaulted  sky 
Like  lamps  in  some  fair  palace  vast  and 
high. 

In  sooth,  it  was  a pleasant  sight  to  see 
That  Saxon  monk,  with  hood  and  rosary, 
With  inkhorn  at  his  belt,  and  pen  and  book, 
And  mingled  love  and  revei’ence  in  his  look, 
Or  hear  the  cloister  and  the  court  repeat 
The  measured  footfalls  of  his  sandaled  feet, 
Or  watch  him  with  the  pupils  of  his  school, 
Gentle  of  speech,  but  absolute  of  rule. 


Among  them,  always  earliest  in  his  place, 
Was  Eginhard,  a youth  of  Frankish  race, 
Whose  face  was  blight  with  flashes  that 
forerun 

The  splendors  of  a yet  unrisen  sun. 

To  him  all  things  were  possible,  and  seemed 
Not  what  he  had  accomplished,  but  had 
dreamed, 

And  what  were  tasks  to  others  were  his  play, 
The  pastime  of  an  idle  holiday. 

Smaragdo,  Abbot  of  St.  Michael’s,  said, 

With  many  a shrug  and  shaking  of  the  head, 
Surely  some  demon  must  possess  the  lad, 
Who  showed  more  wit  than  ever  school-boy 
had, 

And  learned  his  Trivium  thus  without  the 
rod  ; 

But  Alcuin  said  it  was  the  grace  of  God. 

Thus  he  grew  up,  in  Logic  point-device, 
Perfect  in  Grammar,  and  in  Rhetoric  nice  ; 
Science  of  Numbers,  Geometric  art, 

And  lore  of  Stars,  and  Music  knew  by  heart ; 
A Minnesinger,  long  before  the  times 
Of  those  who  sang  their  love  in  Suabian 
rhymes. 


HENR  Y WA  DS  WOR  TJf  L ON G FELL  0 W. 


4G7 


The  Emperor,  when  he  heard  this  good  re- 
port 

Of  Eginhard  much  buzzed  about  the  court, 
Said  to  himself,  “ This  stripling  seems  to  be 
Purposely  sent  into  the  world  for  me  ; 

He  shall  become  my  scribe,  and  shall  be 
schooled 

In  all  the  arts  whereby  the  world  is  ruled.” 
Thus  did  the  gentle  Eginhard  attain 
To  honor  in  the  court  of  Charlemagne ; 
Became  the  sovereign’s  favorite,  his  right  hand, 


So  that  his  fame  was  great  in  all  the  land, 
And  all  men  loved  him  for  his  modest  grace 
And  comeliness  of  figure  and  of  face. 

An  inmate  of  the  palace,  yet  recluse, 

A man  of  books,  yet  sacred  from  abuse 
Among  the  armed  knights  with  spur  on  heel, 
The  tramp  of  horses  and  the  clang  of  steel ; 
And  as  the  Emperor  promised  he  was  schooled 
In  all  the  arts  by  which  the  world  is  ruled. 
But  the  one  art  supreme,  whose  law  is  fate, 
The  Emperor  never  dreamed  of  till  too  late. 


Home  from  her  convent  to  the  palace  came 
The  lovely  Princess  Emma,  whose  sweet 
name, 

Whispered  by  seneschal  or  sung  by  bard, 
Had  often  touched  the  soul  of  Eginhard. 

He  saw  her  from  his  window,  as  in  state 
She  came,  by  knights  attended  through  the 
gate  ; 

He  saw  her  at  the  banquet  of  that  day, 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  beautiful  as  May; 


He  saw  her  in  the  garden,  as  she  strayed 
Among  the  flowers  of  summer  with  her  maid, 
And  said  to  him,  “ O Eginhard,  disclose 
The  meaning  and  the  mystery  of  the  rose  ; ” 
And  trembling  he  made  answer : “ In  good 
sooth, 

Its  mystery  is  love,  its  meaning  youth  ! ” 

How  can  I tell  the  signals  and  the  signs 
By  which  one  heart  another  heart  divines  ? 


468 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


How  can  I tell  the  many  thousand  ways 
By  which  it  keeps  the  secret  it  betrays  ? 

O mystery  of  love  ! O strange  romance  ! 
Among  the  Peers  and  Paladins  of  France, 
Shining  in  steel,  and  prancing  on  gay  steeds 
Noble  by  birth,  yet  nobler  by  great  deeds, 
The  Princess  Emma  had  no  words  nor  looks 
But  for  this  clerk,  this  man  of  thought  and 
books. 

The  summer  passed,  the  autumn  came ; the 
stalks 

Of  lilies  blackened  in  the  garden  walks; 

The  leaves  fell,  russet-golden  and  blood-red, 
Love-letters  thought  the  poet  fancy-led, 

Or  Jove  descending  in  a shower  of  gold 
Into  the  lap  of  Danae  of  old  ; 

For  poets  cherish  many  a strange  conceit, 
And  love  transmutes  all  nature  by  its  heat. 
No  more  the  garden  lessons,  nor  the  dark 
And  hurried  meetings  in  the  twilight  park  ; 
But  now  the  studious  lamp,  and  the  delights 
Of  firesides  in  the  silent  winter  nights, 

And  watching  from  his  window  hour  by  hour 
The  light  that  burned  in  Princess  Emma’s 
tower. 

At  length  one  night,  while  musing  by  the 
fire, 

O'ercome  at  last  by  his  insane  desire,  — 

For  what  will  reckless  love  not  do  and  dare? 
He  crossed  the  court,  and  climbed  the  wind- 
ing stair, 

With  some  feigned  message  in  the  Emperor’s 
name ; 

But  when  he  to  the  lady’s  presence  came 
He  knelt  down  at  her  feet,  until  she  laid 
Her  hand  upon  him,  like  a naked  blade, 

And  whispered  in  his  ear:  “ Arise,  Sir  Knight, 
To  my  heart's  level,  O my  heart’s  delight.” 

And  there  he  lingered  till  the  crowing  cock, 
The  Alectryon  of  the  farmyard  and  the  flock, 
Sang  his  aubade  with  lusty  voice  and  clear, 
To  tell  the  sleeping  world  that  dawn  was  near. 
And  then  they  parted ; but  at  parting,  lo  ! 
They  saw  the  palace  courtyard  white  with 
snow, 


And,  placid  as  a nun,  the  moon  on  high 
Gazing  from  cloudy  cloisters  of  the  sky. 

“Alas!”  he  said,  “how  hide  the  fatal  line 
Of  footprints  leading  from  thy  door  to 
mine, 

And  none  returning!”  Ah,  he  little  knew 
What  woman’s  wit,  when  put  to  proof,  can 
do  ! 

That  night  the  Emperor,  sleepless  with  the 
cares 

And  troubles  that  attend  on  state  affairs, 
Had  risen  before  the  dawn,  and  musing 
gazed 

Into  the  silent  night,  as  one  amazed 
To  see  the  calm  that  reigned  o’er  all  su- 
preme, 

When  his  own  reign  was  but  a troubled 
dream. 

The  moon  lit  up  the  gables  capped  with 
snow, 

And  the  white  roofs,  and  half  the  court 
below, 

And  he  beheld  a form,  that  seemed  to 
cower 

Beneath  a burden,  come  from  Emma’s 
tower,  — 

A woman,  who  upon  her  shoulders  bore 
Clerk  Eginhard  to  his  own  private  door, 
And  then  returned  in  haste,  but  still  es- 
sayed 

To  tread  the  footprints  she  herself  had 
made ; 

And  as  she  passed  across  the  lighted  space, 
The  Emperor  saw  his  daughter  Emma’s 
face ! 

He  started  not ; he  did  not  speak  or  moan, 
But  seemed  as  one  who  hath  been  turned 
to  stone ; 

And  stood  there  like  a statue,  nor  awoke 
Out  of  his  trance  of  pain,  till  morning 
broke, 

Till  the  stars  faded,  and  the  moon  went 
down, 

And  o’er  the  towers  and  steeples  of  the 
town 

Came  the  gray  daylight ; then  the  sun,  who 
took 


I1ENR  T IV A DS  IVOR  TH  L ONGFEL  L 0 IV. 


469 


The  empire  of  the  world  with  sovereign  look, 
Suffusing  with  a soft  and  golden  glow 
All  the  dead  landscape  in  its  shroud  of 
snow, 

Touching  with  flame  the  tapering  chapel 
spires, 

Windows  and  roofs,  and  smoke  of  household 
fires, 

And  kindling  park  and  palace  as  he  came; 
The  stork's  nest  on  the  chimney  seemed  in 
flame. 

And  thus  he  stood  till  Eginhard  appeared, 
Demure  and  modest  with  his  comely  beard 
And  flowing  flaxen  tresses,  come  to  ask, 

As  was  his  wont,  the  day’s  appointed  task. 
The  Emperor  looked  upon  him  with  a smile, 
And  gently  said  : “ My  son,  wait  yet  awhile ; 
This  hour  my  council  meets  upon  some  great 
And  very  urgent  business  of  the  state. 

Come  back  within  the  hour.  On  thy  return 


The  work  appointed  for  thee  shalt  thou 
learn.” 

Having  dismissed  this  gallant  Troubadour, 
lie  summoned  straight  his  council,  and  secure 
And  steadfast  in  his  purpose,  from  the  throne 
All  the  adventure  of  the  night  made  known  ; 
Then  asked  for  sentence ; and  with  eager 
breath 

Some  answered  banishment,  and  others  death. 

Then  spake  the  king:  “ Your  sentence  is  not 
mine ; 

Life  is  the  gift  of  God,  and  is  divine ; 

Nor  from  these  palace  walls  shall  one  depart 
Who  carries  such  a secret  in  his  heart ; 

My  better  judgment  points  another  way. 
Good  Alcuin,  I remember  how  one  day 
When  my  Pepino  asked  you,  ‘ What  are 
men  ? ’ 

You  wrote  upon  his  tablets  with  your  pen. 


470 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


‘ Guests  of  the  grave  and  travellers  that 
pass ! ’ 

This  being  true  of  all  men,  we,  alas  ! 
Being  all  fashioned  of  the  selfsame  dust, 
Let  us  be  merciful  as  well  as  just ; 

This  passing  traveller,  who  hath  stolen  away 
The  brightest  jewel  of  my  crown  to-day, 
Shall  of  himself  the  precious  gem  restore  ; 
By  giving  it,  I make  it  mine  once  more. 
Over  those  fatal  footprints  I will  throw 
My  ermine  mantle  like  another  snow.” 

Then  Eginhard  was  summoned  to  the  hall, 
And  entered,  and  in  presence  of  them  all, 
The  Emperor  said  : “ My  son,  for  thou  to 
me 

Hast  been  a son,  and  evermore  shalt  be, 
Long  hast  thou  served  thy  sovereign,  and 
thy  zeal 

Pleads  to  me  with  importunate  appeal, 
While  1 have  been  forgetful  to  requite 


Thy  service  and  affection  as  was  right. 

But  now  the  hour  is  come,  when  I,  thy 
Lord, 

Will  crown  thy  love  with  such  supreme 
reward, 

A gift  so  precious  kings  have  striven  in 
vain 

To  win  it  from  the  hands  of  Charlemagne.” 

Then  sprang  the  portals  of  the  chamber 
wide, 

And  Princess  Emma  entered,  in  the  pride 

Of  birth  and  beauty,  that  in  part  o’ercame 

The  conscious  terror  and  the  blush  of  shame. 

And  the  good  Emperor  rose  up  from  his 
throne, 

And  taking  her  white  hand  within  his  own 

Placed  it  in  Eginliard’s,  and  said:  “ My  son, 

This  is  the  gift  thy  constant  zeal  hath  won  ; 

Thus  I repay  the  royal  debt  I owe, 

And  cover  up  the  footprints  in  the  snow.” 


INTERLUDE. 


Thus  ran  the  Student’s  pleasant  rhyme 
Of  Eginhard  and  love  and  youth  ; 

Some  doubted  its  historic  truth, 

But  while  they  doubted,  ne’ertheless 
Saw  in  it  gleams  of  truthfulness, 

And  thanked  the  Monk  of  Lauresheim. 

This  they  discussed  in  various  mood  ; 

Then  in  the  silence  that  ensued 
Was  heard  a sharp  and  sudden  sound 
As  of  a bowstring  snapped  in  air; 

And  the  Musician  with  a bound 
Sprang  up  in  terror  from  his  chair, 

And  for  a moment  listening  stood, 

Then  strode  across  the  room,  and  found 
His  dear,  his  darling  violin 
Still  lying  safe  asleep  within 
Its  little  cradle,  like  a child 
That  gives  a sudden  cry  of  pain, 

And  wakes  to  fall  asleep  again  ; 

And  as  he  looked  at  it  and  smiled, 

By  the  uncertain  light  beguiled, 

Despair!  two  strings  were  broken  in  twain. 


While  all  lamented  and  made  moan, 

With  many  a sympathetic  word 
As  if  the  loss  had  been  their  own, 
Deeming  the  tones  they  might  have  heard 
Sweeter  than  they  had  heard  before, 

They  saw  the  Landlord  at  the  door, 

The  missing  man,  the  portly  Squire ! 

He  had  not  entered,  but  he  stood 
With  both  arms  full  of  seasoned  wood, 

To  feed  the  much-devouring  fire, 

That  like  a lion  in  a cage 

Lashed  its  long  tail  and  roared  with  rage. 

The  missing  man!  Ah,  yes,  they  said, 
Missing,  but  whither  had  he  fied? 

Where  had  he  hidden  himself  away  ? 

No  farther  than  the  barn  or  shed ; 

He  had  not  hidden  himself,  nor  fled ; 

II  ow  should  he  pass  the  rainy  day 
But  in  his  barn  with  hens  and  hay, 

Or  mending  harness,  cart,  or  sled? 

Now,  having  come,  he  needs  must  stay 
And  tell  his  tale  as  well  as  they. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


471 


The  Landlord  answered  only  : “ These 
Are  logs  from  the  dead  apple-trees 
Of  the  old  orchard  planted  here 
By  the  first  Howe  of  Sudbury. 

Nor  oak  nor  maple  has  so  clear 
A flame,  or  burns  so  quietly, 

Or  leaves  an  ash  so  clean  and  white;’ 
Thinking  by  this  to  put  aside 
The  impending  tale  that  terrified ; 

When  suddenly,  to  his  delight, 

The  Theologian  interposed, 

Saying  that  when  the  door  was  closed, 
And  they  had  stopped  that  draft  of  cold, 
Unpleasant  night  air,  he  proposed 
To  tell  a tale  world-wide  apart 
From  that  the  student  had  just  told  ; 
World-wide  apart,  and  yet  akin, 

As  showing  that  the  human  heart 
Beats  on  forever  as  of  old, 

As  well  beneath  the  snow-white  fold 
Of  Quaker  kerchief,  as  within 
Sendai  or  silk  or  cloth  of  gold, 

And  without  preface  would  begin. 


And  then  the  clamorous  clock  struck  eight, 

Deliberate,  with  sonorous  chime 

Slow  measuring  out  the  march  of  time, 

Like  some  grave  Consul  of  Old  Rome 

In  Jupiter’s  temple  driving  home 

The  nails  that  marked  the  year  and  date. 

Thus  interrupted  in  his  rhyme, 

The  Theologian  needs  must  wait ; 

But  quoted  Horace,  where  he  sings 
The  dire  Necessity  of  things, 

That  drives  into  the  roofs  sublime 
Of  new-built  houses  of  the  great 
The  adamantine  nails  of  Fate. 


When  ceased  the  little  carillon 
To  herald  from  its  wooden  tower 
The  important  transit  of  the  hour. 
The  Theologian  hastened  on, 
Content  to  be  allowed  at  last 
To  sing  his  Idyl  of  the  Past. 


THE  THEOLOGIAN’S  TALE. 

ELIZABETH. 

I. 


“ Ah,  how  short  are  the  days  ! How  soon  the  night  overtakes  us  ! 

In  the  old  country  the  twilight  is  longer ; but  here  in  the  forest 
Suddenly  comes  the  dark,  with  hardly  a pause  in  its  coming, 

Hardly  a moment  between  the  two  lights,  the  day  and  the  lamplight ; 

Yet  how  grand  is  the  winter!  How  spotless  the  snow  is,  and  perfect!” 

Thus  spake  Elizabeth  Haddon  at  nightfall  to  Hannah  the  housemaid, 

As  in  the  farm-house  kitchen,  that  served  for  kitchen  and  parlor, 

By  the  window  she  sat  with  her  work,  and  looked  on  a landscape 
White  as  the  great  white  sheet  that  Peter  saw  in  his  vision, 

By  the  four  corners  let  down  and  descending  out  of  the  heavens. 

Covered  with  snow  were  the  forests  of  pine,  and  the  fields  and  the  meadows. 


1111 


472 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Nothing  was  dark  but  the  sky,  and  the  distant  Delaware  flowing 
Down  from  its  native  hills,  a peaceful  and  bountiful  river. 

Then  with  a smile  on  her  lips  made  answer  Hannah  the  housemaid  : 
“ Beautiful  winter  ! yea,  the  winter  is  beautiful,  surely, 

If  one' could  only  walk  like  a fly  with  one’s  feet  on  the  ceiling. 

But  the  great  Delaware  River  is  not  like  the  Thames,  as  we  saw  it 


Out  of  our  upper  windows  in  Rotherhithe  Street  in  the  Borough, 

Crowded  with  masts  and  sails  of  vessels  coming  and  going  ; 

Here  there  is  nothing  but  pines,  with  patches  of  snow  on  their  branches. 
There  is  snow  in  the  air,  and  see  ! it  is  falling  already  ; 

All  the  roads  will  be  blocked,  and  I pity  Joseph  to-morrow, 

Breaking  his  way  through  the  drifts,  with  his  sled  and  oxen  ; and  then,  too, 
How  in  all  the  world  shall  we  get  to  Meeting  on  First-Day  ? ” 

But  Elizabeth  checked  her,  and  answered,  mildly  reproving : 

“ Surely  the  Lord  will  provide  ; for  unto  tire  snow  He  sayeth, 

Be  thou  on  the  earth,  the  good  Lord  sayeth ; He  is  it 
Giveth  snow  like  wool,  like  ashes  scatters  the  hoar-frost.” 

So  she  folded  her  work  and  laid  it  away  in  her  basket. 

Meanwhile  Hannah  the  housemaid  had  closed  and  fastened  the  shutters, 
Spread  the  cloth,  and  lighted  the  lamp  on  the  table,  and  placed  there 
Plates  and  cups  from  the  dresser,  the  brown  rye  loaf,  and  the  butter 
Fresh  from  the  dairy,  and  then,  protecting  her  hand  with  a holder, 

Took  from  the  crane  in  the  chimney  the  steaming  and  simmering  kettle, 
Poised  it  aloft  in  the  air,  and  filled  up  the  earthern  teapot, 

Made  in  Delft,  and  adorned  with  quaint  and  wonderful  figures. 

Then  Elizabeth  said,  “Lo!  Joseph  is  long  on  his  errand. 

I have  sent  him  away  with  a hamper  of  food  and  of  clothing 
For  the  poor  in  the  village.  A good  lad  and  cheerful  is  Joseph  ; 

In  the  right  place  is  his  heart,  and  his  hand  is  ready  and  willing.” 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


473 


Thus  in  praise  of  her  servant  she  spake,  ancl  Hannah  the  housemaid 
Laughed  with  her  eyes,  as  she  listened,  but  governed  her  tongue,  and  was  silent, 
While  her  mistress  went  on:  “The  house  is  far  from  the  village; 

We  should  be  lonely  here,  were  it  not  for  Friends  that  in  passing 
Sometimes  tarry  o’ernight,  and  make  us  glad  by  their  coming." 

Thereupon  answered  Hannah  the  housemaid,  the  thrifty,  the  frugal  : 

“ Yea,  they  come  and  they  tarry,  as  if  thy  house  were  a tavern ; 

Open  to  all  are  its  doors,  and  they  come  and  go  like  the  pigeons 
In  and  out  of  the  holes  of  the  pigeon-house  over  the  hayloft, 

Cooing  and  smoothing  their  feathers  and  basking  themselves  in  the  sunshine. 

But  in  meekness  of  spirit,  and  calmly,  Elizabeth  answered : 

“All  I have  is  the  Lord’s,  not  mine  to  give  or  withhold  it ; 

I but  distribute  his  gifts  to  the  poor,  and  to  those  of  his  people 
Who  in  journeyings  often  surrender  their  lives  to  his  service. 

His,  not  mine,  are  the  gifts,  and  only  so  far  can  I make  them 
Mine,  as  in  giving  I add  my  heart  to  whatever  is  given. 

Therefore  my  excellent  father  first  built  this  house  in  the  clearing ; 

Though  he  came  not  himself,  I came  ; for  the  Lord  was  my  guidance, 

Leading  me  here  for  this  service.  We  must  not  grudge,  then,  to  others 

Ever  the  cup  of  cold  water,  or  crumbs  that  fall  from  our  table.’’ 

Thus  rebuked,  for  a season  was  silent  the  penitent  housemaid  ; 

And  Elizabeth  said  in  tones  even  sweeter  and  softer  : 

“ Dost  thou  remember,  Hannah,  the  great  May-Meeting  in  London, 

When  I was  still  a child,  how  we  sat  in  the  silent  assembly, 

Waiting  upon  the  Lord  in  patient  and  passive  submission  ? 

No  one  spake,  till  at  length  a young  man,  a stranger,  John  Estaugh, 

Moved  by  the  Spirit,  rose,  as  if  he  were  John  the  Apostle, 

Speaking  such  words  of  power  that  they  bowed  our  hearts,  as  a strong  wind 
Bends  the  grass  of  the  fields,  or  grain  that  is  ripe  for  the  sickle. 

Thoughts  of  him  to-day  have  been  oft  borne  inward  upon  me, 

Wherefore  I do  not  know  ; but  strong  is  the  feeling  within  me 
That  once  more  I shall  see  a face  I have  never  forgotten.” 


ii. 

E’en  as  she  spake  they  heard  the  musical  jangle  of  sleigh-bells, 

First  far  off,  with  a dreamy  sound  and  faint  in  the  distance, 

Then  growing  nearer  and  louder,  and  turning  into  the  farmyard, 

Till  it  stopped  at  the  door,  with  sudden  creaking  of  runners. 

Then  there  were  voices  heard  as  of  two  men  talking  together, 

And  to  herself,  as  she  listened,  upbraiding  said  Hannah  the  housemaid, 
“It  is  Joseph  come  back,  and  I wonder  what  stranger  is  with  him.” 

Down  from  its  nail  she  took  and  lighted  the  great  tin  lantern 
Pierced  with  holes,  and  round,  and  roofed  like  the  top  of  a lighthouse, 
And  went  forth  to  receive  the  coming  guest  at  the  doorway, 

Casting  into  the  dark  a network  of  glimmer  and  shadow 

(jO 


474 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Over  the  falling  snow,  the  yellow  sleigh,  and  the  horses, 

And  the  forms  of  men,  snow-covered,  looming  gigantic. 

Then  giving  Joseph  the  lantern,  she  entered  the  house  with  the  stranger. 
Youthful  he  was  and  tall,  and  his  cheeks  aglow  with  the  night  air  ; 

And  as  he  entered,  Elizabeth  rose,  and,  going  to  meet  him, 

As  if  an  unseen  power  had  announced  and  preceded  his  presence, 

And  he  had  come  as  one  whose  coming  had  long  been  expected, 

Quietly  gave  him  her  hand,  and  said,  “ Thou  art  welcome,  John  Estaugh.” 
And  the  stranger  replied,  with  staid  and  quiet  behavior, 

“ Dost  thou  remember  me  still,  Elizabeth  ? After  so  many 
Years  have  passed,  it  seemeth  a wonderful  thing  that  I find  thee. 

Surely  the  hand  of  the  Lord  conducted  me  here  to  thy  threshold. 

For  as  I journeyed  along,  and  pondered  alone  and  in  silence 
On  his  ways,  that  are  past  finding  out,  I saw  in  the  snow-mist, 

Seemingly  weary  with  travel,  a wayfarer,  who  by  the  wayside 
Paused  and  waited.  Forthwith  I remembered  Queen  Candace’s  eunuch, 
How  on  the  way  that  goes  down  from  Jerusalem  unto  Gaza, 

Reading  Esaias  the  Prophet,  he  journeyed,  and  spake  unto  Philip, 

Praying  him  to  come  up  and  sit  in  his  chariot  with  him. 

So  I greeted  the  man,  and  he  mounted  the  sledge  beside  me, 

And  as  we  talked  on  the  way  he  told  me  of  thee  and  thy  homestead, 

How,  being  led  by  the  light  of  the  Spirit,  that  never  deceiveth, 

Full  of  zeal  for  the  work  of  the  Lord,  thou  hadst  come  to  this  country. 
And  I remembered  thy  name,  and  thy  father  and  mother  in  England, 

And  on  my  journey  have  stopped  to  see  thee,  Elizabeth  Haddon, 

Wishing  to  strengthen  thy  hand  in  the  labors  of  love  thou  art  doing.” 

And  Elizabeth  answered  with  confident  voice,  and  serenely 
Looking  into  his  face  with  her  innocent  eyes  as  she  answered, 

“ Surely  the  hand  of  the  Lord  is  in  it ; his  Spirit  hath  led  thee 
Out  of  the  darkness  and  storm  to  the  light  and  peace  of  my  fireside.” 

Then,  with  stamping  of  feet  the  door  was  opened,  and  Joseph 
Entered,  bearing  the  lantern,  and,  carefully  blowing  the  light  out, 

Hung  it  up  on  its  nail,  and  all  sat  down  to  their  supper  ; 

For  underneath  that  roof  was  no  distinction  of  persons, 

But  one  family  only,  one  heart,  one  hearth,  and  one  household. 

When  the  supper  was  ended  they  drew  their  chairs  to  the  fireplace, 
Spacious,  open-hearted,  profuse  of  flame  and  of  firewood, 

Lord  of  forests  unfelled,  and  not  a gleaner  of  fagots, 

Spreading  its  arms  to  embrace  with  inexhaustible  bounty 
All  who  fled  from  the  cold,  exultant,  laughing  at  winter  ! 

Only  Hannah  the  housemaid  was  busy  in  clearing  the  table, 

Coming  and  going,  and  bustling  about  in  closet  and  chamber. 

Then  Elizabeth  told  her  story  again  to  John  Estaugli, 

Going  far  back  to  the  past,  to  the  early  days  of  her  childhood ; 

How  she  had  waited  and  watched,  in  all  her  doubts  and  besetments 
Comforted  with  the  extendings  and  holy,  sweet  inflowings 


ARTIST  T.  W.  WOOD. 


1 And  as  he  entered,  Elizabeth  rose,  and,  going  to  meet  him, 

As  if  an  unseen  power  had  announced  and  preceded  his  presence." 

Elizabeth , in  Tales  of  a Wayside  Inn. 


{HI  MBBAftl 

or  m 

C?  ILlAttClS 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


475 


Of  the  spirit  of  love,  till  the  voice  imperative  sounded, 

And  she  obeyed  the  voice,  and  cast  in  her  lot  with  her  people 
Here  in  the  desert  land,  and  God  would  provide  for  the  issue. 

Meanwhile  Joseph  sat  with  folded  hands,  and  demurely 
Listened,  or  seemed  to  listen,  and  in  the  silence  that  followed 
Nothing  was  heard  for  a while  but  the  step  of  Hannah  the  housemaid 
Walking  the  floor  overhead,  and  setting  the  chambers  in  order. 

And  Elizabeth  said,  with  a smile  of  compassion,  “ The  maiden 

Hath  a light  heart  in  her  breast,  but  her  feet  are  heavy  and  awkward.” 

Inwardly  Joseph  laughed,  but  governed  his  tongue,  and  was  silent. 

Then  came  the  hour  of  sleep,  death’s  counterfeit,  nightly  rehearsal 
Of  the  great  Silent  Assembly,  the  Meeting  of  shadows,  where  no  man 
Speaketh,  but  all  are  still,  and  the  peace  and  rest  are  unbroken  ! 

Silently  over  that  house  the  blessing  of  slumber  descended. 

But  when  the  morning  dawned,  and  the  sun  uprose  in  his  splendor, 
Breaking  his  way  through  clouds  that  encumbered  his  path  in  the  heavens, 
Joseph  was  seen  with  his  sled  and  oxen  breaking  a pathway 
Through  the  drifts  of  snow  ; the  horses  already  wei'e  harnessed, 

And  John  Estaugh  was  standing  and  taking  leave  at  the  threshold, 

Saying  that  he  should  return  at  the  Meeting  in  May ; while  above  them 
Hannah  the  housemaid,  the  homely,  was  looking  out  of  the  attic, 

Laughing  aloud  at  Joseph,  then  suddenly  closing  the  casement, 

As  the  bird  in  a cuckoo-clock  peeps  out  of  its  window, 

Then  disappears  again,  and  closes  the  shutter  behind  it. 


476 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


TTI. 

Now  was  the  winter  gone,  and  the  snow  ; and  Robin  the  Redbreast 
Boasted  on  bush  and  tree  it  was  he,  it  was  lie  and  no  other 
That  had  covered  with  leaves  the  Babes  in  the  Wood,  and  blithely 
All  the  birds  sang  with  him,  and  little  cared  for  his  boasting, 

Or  for  his  Babes  in  the  Wood,  or  the  Cruel  Uncle,  and  only 

Sang  for  the  mates  they  had  chosen,  and  cared  for  the  nests  they  were  building. 
With  them,  but  more  sedately  and  meekly,  Elizabeth  Haddon 
Sang  in  her  inmost  heart,  but  her  lips  were  silent  and  songless. 


Thus  came  the  lovely  spring  with  a rush  of  blossoms  and  music, 
Flooding:  the  earth  with  dowers,  and  the  air  with  melodies  vernal. 

Then  it  came  to  pass,  one  pleasant  morning,  that  slowly 
Up  the  road  there  came  a cavalcade,  as  of  pilgrims, 

Men  and  women,  wending  their  way  to  the  Quarterly  Meeting 
In  the  neighboring  town  ; and  with  them  came  riding  John  Estaugh. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


477 


At  Elizabeth's  door  they  stopped  to  rest,  and  alighting 
Tasted  the  currant  wine,  and  the  bread  of  rye,  and  the  honey 
Brought  from  the  hives,  that  stood  by  the  sunny  wall  of  the  garden ; 

Then  remounted  their  horses,  refreshed,  and  continued  their  journey, 

And  Elizabeth  with  them,  and  Joseph,  and  Hannah  the  housemaid. 

But,  as  they  started,  Elizabeth  lingered  a little,  and  leaning 
Over  her  horse’s  neck,  in  a whisper  said  to  John  Estaugh : 

“Tarry  awhile  behind,  for  I have  something  to  tell  thee, 

Not  to  be  spoken  lightly,  nor  in  the  presence  of  others  ; 

Them  it  eoncerneth  not,  only  thee  and  me  it  concerned).’’ 

And  they  rode  slowly  along  through  the  woods,  conversing  together. 

It  was  a pleasure  to  breathe  the  fragrant  air  of  the  forest ; 

It  was  a pleasure  to  live  on  that  bright  and  happy  May  morning ! 

Then  Elizabeth  said,  though  still  with  a certain  reluctance, 

As  if  impelled  to  reveal  a secret  she  fain  would  have  guarded : 

“ I will  no  longer  conceal  what  is  laid  upon  me  to  tell  thee  ; 

I have  received  from  the  Lord  a charge  to  love  thee,  John  Estaugh.” 

And  John  Estaugh  made  answer,  surprised  at  the  words  she  had  spoken, 
“ Pleasant  to  me  are  thy  converse,  thy  ways,  thy  meekness  of  spirit ; 
Pleasant  thy  frankness  of  speech,  and  thy  soul’s  immaculate  whiteness, 

Love  without  dissimulation,  a holy  and  inward  adorning. 

But  I have  yet  no  light  to  lead  me,  no  voice  to  direct  me. 

When  the  Lord’s  work  is  done,  and  the  toil  and  the  labor  completed 
He  hath  appointed  to  me,  I will  gather  into  the  stillness 
Of  my  own  heart  awhile,  and  listen  and  wait  for  his  guidance.’’ 

Then  Elizabeth  said,  not  troubled  nor  wounded  in  spirit, 

“ So  is  it  best,  John  Estaugh.  We  will  not  speak  of  it  further. 

It  hath  been  laid  upon  me  to  tell  thee  this,  for  to-morrow 
Thou  art  going  away,  across  the  sea,  and  I know  not 
When  I shall  see  thee  more ; but  if  the  Lord  hath  decreed  it, 

Thou  wilt  return  again  to  seek  me  here  and  to  find  me.” 

And  they  rode  onward  in  silence,  and  entered  the  town  with  the  others. 


IY. 

Ships  that  pass  in  the  night,  and  speak  each  other  in  passing, 

Only  a signal  shown  and  a distant  voice  in  the  darkness ; 

So  on  the  ocean  of  life,  we  pass  and  speak  one  another, 

Only  a look  and  a voice,  then  darkness  again  and  a silence. 

Now  went  on  as  of  old  the  quiet  life  of  the  homestead. 

Patient  and  unrepining  Elizabeth  labored,  in  all  things 
Mindful  not  of  herself,  but  bearing  the  burdens  of  others, 

Always  thoughtful  and  kind  and  untroubled ; and  Hannah  the  housemaid 
Diligent  early  and  late,  and  rosy  with  washing  and  scouring. 

Still  as  of  old  disparaged  the  eminent  merits  of  Joseph, 

And  was  at  times  reproved  for  her  light  and  frothy  behavior, 

For  her  shy  looks,  and  her  careless  words,  and  her  evil  surmisings. 


478 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Being  pressed  down  somewhat,  like  a cart  with  sheaves  overladen, 

As  she  would  sometimes  say  to  Joseph,  quoting  the  Scriptures. 

Meanwhile  John  Estaugh  departed  across  the  sea,  and  departing 
Carried  hid  in  his  heart  a secret  sacred  and  precious, 

Filling  its  chambers  with  fragrance,  and  seeming  to  him  in  its  sweetness 
Mary’s  ointment  of  spikenard,  that  tilled  all  the  house  with  its  odor. 

O lost  days  of  delight,  that  are  wasted  in  doubting  and  waiting  ! 

O lost  hours  and  days  in  which  we  might  have  been  happy ! 

But  the  light  shone  at  last,  and  guided  his  wavering  footsteps, 

And  at  last  came  the  voice,  imperative,  questionless,  certain. 

Then  John  Estaugh  came  back  o'er  the  sea  for  the  gift  that  was  offered, 
Better  than  houses  and  lands,  the  gift  of  a woman’s  affection. 

And  on  the  First-Day  that  followed,  he  rose  in  the  Silent  Assembly, 

Holding  in  his  strong  hand  a hand  that  trembled  a little, 

Promising  to  be  kind  and  true  and  faithful  in  all  things. 

Such  were  the  marriage  rites  of  John  and  Elizabeth  Estaugh. 

And  not  otherwise  Joseph,  the  honest,  the  diligent  servant, 

Sped  in  his  bashful  wooing  with  homely  Hannah  the  housemaid  ; 

For  when  he  asked  her  the  question,  she  answered,  “Nay;”  and  then  added: 
“ But  thee  may  make  believe,  and  see  what  will  come  of  it,  Joseph.” 


INTERLUDE. 


“ A pleasant  and  a winsome  tale,” 

The  Student  said,  “ though  somewhat  pale 
And  quiet  in  its  coloring, 

As  if  it  caught  its  tone  and  air 
From  the  gray  suits  that  Quakers  wear  ; 
Yet  worthy  of  some  German  bard, 

Hebei,  or  Voss,  or  Eberhard, 

Who  love  of  humble  themes  to  sing, 

In  humble  verse  ; but  no  more  true 
Than  was  the  tale  I told  to  you.” 

The  Theologian  made  reply, 

And  with  some  warmth,  “ That  I deny  ; 

’T  is  no  invention  of  my  own, 

But  something  well  and  widely  known 
To  readers  of  a riper  age, 

Writ  by  the  skilful  hand  that  wrote 
The  Indian  tale  of  Hobomok, 

And  Philotliea’s  classic  page. 

I found  it  like  a waif  afloat, 

Or  dulse  uprooted  from  its  rock, 

On  the  swift  tides  that  ebb  and  flow 
In  daily  papers,  and  at  flood 
Bear  freighted  vessels  to  and  fro, 


But  later,  when  the  ebb  is  low, 

Leave  a long  waste  of  sand  and  mud.” 

“ It  matters  little,”  quoth  the  Jew ; 

“ The  cloak  of  truth  is  lined  with  lies, 
Sayeth  some  proverb  old  and  wise ; 
And  Love  is  master  of  all  arts, 

And  puts  it  into  human  hearts 
The  strangest  things  to  say  and  do.” 

And  here  the  controversy  closed 
Abruptly,  ere  ’t  was  well  begun  ; 

For  the  Sicilian  interposed 

With,  “ Lordlings,  listen,  every  one 

That  listen  may,  unto  a tale 

That ’s  merrier  than  the  nightingale  ; 

A tale  that  cannot  boast,  forsooth, 

A single  rag  or  shred  of  truth  ; 

That  does  not  leave  the  mind  in  doubt 
As  to  the  with  it  or  without ; 

A naked  falsehood  and  absurd 
As  mortal  ever  told  or  heard. 
Therefore  I tell  it ; or,  maybe, 

Simply  because  it  pleases  me.” 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


479 


THE  SICILIAN’S  TALE. 

THE  MONK  OF  CASAL-MAGGIORE. 


Once  on  a time,  some  centuries  ago, 

In  the  Lot  sunshine  two  Franciscan  friars 

W ended  their  weary  way  with  footsteps  slow 
Back  to  their  convent,  whose  white  walls 
and  spires 

Gleamed  on  the  hillside  like  a jDatch  of 
snow ; 

Covered  with  dust  they  were,  and  torn 
by  briers, 

And  boi-e  like  sumpter-mules  upon  their 
backs 

The  badge  of  poverty,  their  beggar’s  sacks. 


The  first  was  Brother  Anthony,  a spare 
And  silent  man,  with  pallid  cheeks  and 
thin, 

Much  given  to  vigils,  penance,  fasting, 
prayer, 

Solemn  and  gray,  and  worn  with  disci- 
pline, 

As  if  his  body  but  white  ashes  were, 
Heaped  on  the  living  coals  that  glowed 
within  ; 

A simple  monk,  like  many  of  his  day, 

Whose  instinct  Avas  to  listen  and  obey. 


480 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


A different  man  was  Brother  Timothy, 

Of  larger  mould  and  of  a coarser  paste ; 
A rubicund  and  stalwart  monk  was  he, 
Broad  in  the  shoulders,  broader  in  the 
waist, 

Who  often  filled  the  dull  refectory 

With  noise  by  which  the  convent  was 
disgraced. 

But  to  the  mass-book  gave  but  little  heed, 
By  reason  he  had  never  learned  to  read. 

Now,  as  they  passed  the  outskirts  of  a 
wood, 

They  saw,  with  mingled  pleasure  and 
surprise, 

Fast  tethered  to  a tree  an  ass,  that  stood 
Lazily  winking  his  large,  limpid  eyes. 
The  farmer  Gilbert  of  that  neighborhood 
His  owner  was,  who,  looking  for  supplies 
Of  fagots,  deeper  in  the  wood  had  strayed, 
Leaving  his  beast  to  ponder  in  the  shade. 

As  soon  as  Brother  Timothy  espied 

The  patient  animal,  he  said  : “ Good-lack ! 
Thus  for  our  needs  doth  Providence  pro- 
vide ; 

We’ll  lay  our  wallets  on  the  creature’s 
back.  ” 

This  being  done,  he  leisurely  untied 

From  head  and  neck  the  halter  of  the 
jack, 

And  put  it  round  his  own,  and  to  the  tree 
Stood  tethered  fast  as  if  the  ass  were  he. 

And,  bursting  forth  into  a merry  laugh, 

He  cried  to  Brother  Anthony : “ Away ! 
And  drive  the  ass  before  you  with  your 
staff  ; 

And  when  you  reach  the  convent  you 
may  say 

You  left  me  at  a farm,  half  tired  and  half 
111  with  a fever,  for  a night  and  day, 
And  that  the  farmer  lent  this  ass  to  bear 
Our  wallets,  that  are  heavy  with  good  fare.” 

Now  Brother  Anthony,  who  knew  the  pranks 
Of  Brother  Timothy,  would  not  persuade 
Or  reason  with  him  on  his  quirks  and 
cranks, 


But,  being  obedient,  silently  obeyed ; 
And,  smiting  with  his  staff  the  ass’s  flanks, 
Drove  him  before  him  over  hill  and  glade, 
Safe  with  his  provend  to  the  convent  gate, 
Leaving  poor  Brother  Timothy  to  his  fate. 

Then  Gilbert,  laden  with  fagots  for  his  fire, 
Forth  issued  from  the  wood,  and  stood 
aghast 

To  see  the  ponderous  body  of  the  friar 
Standing  where  he  had  left  his  donkey 
last. 

Trembling  he  stood,  and  dared  not  venture 
nigher, 

But  stared,  and  gaped,  and  crossed  him- 
self full  fast ; 

For,  being  credulous  and  of  little  wit, 

He  thought  it  was  some  demon  from  the 
pit. 

While  speechless  and  bewildered  thus  he 
gazed, 

And  dropped  his  load  of  fagots  on  the 
ground, 

Quoth  Brother  Timothy  : “ Be  not  amazed 
That  where  you  left  a donkey  should  be 
found 

A poor  Franciscan  friar,  half-starved  and 
crazed, 

Standing  demure  and  with  a halter 
bound ; 

But  set  me  free,  and  hear  the  piteous  story 
Of  Brother  Timothy  of  Casal-Maggiore. 

“ I am  a sinful  man,  although  you  see 
I wear  the  consecrated  cowl  and  cape ; 
You  never  owned  an  ass,  but  you  owned  me, 
Changed  and  transformed  from  my  own 
natural  Shape 

All  for  the  deadly  sin  of  gluttony, 

From  which  I could  not  otherwise  escape, 
Than  by  this  penance,  dieting  on  grass, 
And  being  worked  and  beaten  as  an  ass. 

“ Think  of  the  ignominy  I endured ; 

Think  of  the  miserable  life  I led, 

The  toil  and  blows  to  which  I was  inured, 
My  wretched  lodging  in  a windy  shed, 
My  scanty  fare  so  grudgingly  procured, 


HENR  Y WADS  WOR  TH  L ON  OF  ELL  0 W. 


481 


The  damp  and  musty  straw  that  formed 
my  bed ! 

Hut,  having  done  this  penance  for  my  sins, 

My  life  as  man  and  monk  again  begins." 

The  simple  Gilbert,  hearing  words  like 
these, 

Was  conscience-stricken,  and  fell  down 
apace 

Before  the  friar  upon  his  bended  knees, 

And  with  a suppliant  voice  implored  his 
grace  ; 

And  the  good  monk,  now  very  much  at 
ease, 

Granted  him  pardon  with  a smiling  face, 

Nor  could  refuse  to  be  that  night  his 
guest, 

It  being  late,  and  he  in  need  of  rest. 


Upon  a hillside,  where  the  olive  thrives, 
With  figures  painted  on  its  whitewashed 
walls, 

The  cottage  stood  ; and  near  the  humming 
hives 

Made  murmurs  as  of  far-off  waterfalls ; 

A place  where  those  who  love  secluded  lives 
Might  live  content,  and,  free  from  noise 
and  brawls, 

Like  Claudian’s  Old  Man  of  Verona  here 

Measure  by  fruits  the  slow-revolving  year. 

And,  coming  to  this  cottage  of  content, 
They  found  his  children,  and  the  buxom 
wench 

His  wife,  Dame  Cicely,  and  his  father,  bent 
With  years  and  labor,  seated  on  a bench, 

Repeating  over  some  obscure  event 


In  the  old  wars  of  Milanese  and  French ; 
All  welcomed  the  Franciscan,  with  a sense 
Of  sacred  awe  and  humble  revei’ence. 

When  Gilbert  told  them  what  had  come 
to  pass, 

How  beyond  question,  cavil,  or  surmise, 
Good  Brother  Timothy  had  been  their  ass, 
61 


You  should  have  seen  the  wonder  in 
their  eyes ; 

You  should  have  heard  them  cry  “Alas! 
alas ! ” 

Have  heard  their  lamentations  and  their 
sighs ! 

For  all  believed  the  story,  and  began 
To  see  a saint  in  this  afflicted  man. 


482 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Forthwith  there  was  prepared  a grand 
repast, 

To  satisfy  the  craving  of  the  friar 
After  so  rigid  and  prolonged  a fast; 

The  bustling  housewife  stirred  the  kitchen 
fire ; 

Then  her  two  barn-yard  fowls,  her  best  and 
last 

Were  put  to  death,  at  her  express  desire, 
And  served  up  with  a salad  in  a bowl, 
And  flasks  of  country  wine  to  crown  the 
whole. 

It  would  not  be  believed  should  I repeat 

How  hungry  Brother  Timothy  appeared; 
It  was  a pleasure  but  to  see  him  eat, 

His  white  teeth  flashing  through  his 
russet  beard, 

His  face  aglow  and  flushed  with  wine  and 
meat, 

His  roguish  eyes  that  rolled  and  laughed 
and  leered! 

Lord ! how  he  drank  the  blood-red  country 
wine 

As  if  the  village  vintage  were  divine  ! 

And  all  the  while  he  talked  without  sur- 
cease. 

And  told  his  merry  tales  with  jovial  glee 
That  never  flagged,  but  rather  did  increase, 

And  laughed  aloud  as  if  insane  were  he, 
And  wagged  his  red  beard,  matted  like  a 
fleece, 

And  cast  such  glances  at  Dame  Cicely 
That  Gilbert  now  grew  angry  with  his 
guest, 

And  thus  in  words  his  rising  wrath  ex- 
pi’essed. 

“ Good  father,”  said  he,  “ easily  we  see 

How  needful  in  some  persons,  and  how 
right, 

Mortification  of  the  flesh  may  be. 

The  indulgence  you  have  given  it  to- 
night, 

After  long  penance,  clearly  proves  to  me 

Your  strength  against  temptation  is  but 
slight, 

And  shows  the  dreadful  peril  you  are  in 
Of  a relapse  into  your  deadly  sin. 


“ To-morrow  morning,  with  the  rising  sun, 

Go  back  unto  your  convent,  nor  refrain 

From  fasting  and  from  scourging,  for  you 
run 

Great  danger  to  become  an  ass  again, 

Since  monkish  flesh  and  asinine  are  one; 

Therefore  be  wise,  nor  longer  here  re- 
main, 

Unless  you  wish  the  scourge  should  be  ap- 
plied 

By  other  hands,  that  will  not  spare  your 
hide.” 

When  this  the  monk  had  heard,  his  color 
fled 

And  then  returned,  like  lightning  in  the 
air, 

Till  he  was  all  one  blush  from  foot  to 
head, 

And  even  the  bald  spot  in  his  russet 
hair 

Turned  from  its  usual  pallor  to  bright  red  ! 

The  old  man  was  asleep  upon  his  chair. 

Then  all  retired,  and  sank  into  the  deep 

And  helpless  imbecility  of  sleep. 

They  slept  until  the  dawn  of  day  drew 
near, 

Till  the  cock  should  have  crowed,  but 
did  not  crow, 

For  they  had  slain  the  shining  chanticleer 

And  eaten  him  for  supper,  as  you  know. 

The  monk  was  up  betimes  and  of  good 
cheer. 

And,  having  breakfasted,  made  haste  to 

go. 

As  if  he  heard  the  distant  matin  bell, 

And  had  but  little  time  to  say  farewell. 

Fresh  was  the  morning  as  the  breath  of 
kine ; 

Odors  of  herbs  commingled  with  the 
sweet 

Balsamic  exhalations  of  the  pine ; 

A haze  was  in  the  air  presaging  heat ; 

Uprose  the  sun  above  the  Apennine, 

And  all  the  misty  valleys  at  its  feet 

Were  full  of  the  delirious  song  of  birds, 

Voices  of  men,  and  bells,  and  low  of 
herds. 


V 


HE  NR  Y WA DS  IVOR  Til  L ONGFELL  0 IV. 


483 


All  this  to  Brother  Timothy  was  naught ; 

He  did  not  care  for  scenery,  nor  here 

1 1 is  busy  fancy  found  the  tiling  it  sought; 

But  when  he  saw  the  convent  walls  ap- 
pear, 

And  smoke  from  kitchen  chimneys  upward 
caught 

And  whirled  aloft  into  the  atmosphere, 

lie  quickened  his  slow  footsteps,  like  a 
beast 

That  scents  the  stable  a league  off  at  least. 

And  as  he  entered  through  the  convent  gate 

He  saw  there  in  the  court  the  ass,  who 
stood 

Twirling  his  ears  about,  and  seemed  to 
wait, 

Just  as  he  found  him  waiting  in  the 
wood  ; 

And  told  the  Prior  that,  to  alleviate 

The  daily  labors  of  the  brotherhood, 

The  owner,  being  a man  of  means  and 
thrift, 

Bestowed  him  on  the  convent  as  a gift. 


And  thereupon  the  Prior  for  many  days 
Revolved  this  serious  matter  in  his  mind 

And  turned  it  over  many  different  ways, 
Hoping  that  some  safe  issue  he  might 
find; 

But  stood  in  fear  of  what  the  world  would 
say, 

If  he  accepted  presents  of  this  kind, 

Employing  beasts  of  burden  for  the  packs, 

That  lazy  monks  should  carry  on  their 
backs. 

Then,  to  avoid  all  scandal  of  the  sort* 

And  stop  the  mouth  of  cavil,  he  decreed 

That  he  would  cut  the  tedious  matter  short, 
And  sell  the  ass  with  all  convenient 
speed, 

Thus  saving  the  expense  of  his  support, 
And  hoarding  something  for  a time  of 
need. 

So  he  despatched  him  to  the  neighboring 
Fair, 

And  freed  himself  from  cumber  and  from 
care. 


484 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


It  happened  now  by  chance,  as  some  might 
say, 

Others  perhaps  would  call  it  destiny, 

Gilbert  was  at  the  Fair;  and  heard  a bray, 

And  nearer  came,  and  saw  that  it  was 
he, 

And  whispered  in  his  ear,  “ Ah,  lackaday  ! 

Good  father,  the  rebellious  flesh,  I see, 

Has  changed  you  back  into  an  ass  again, 

And  all  my  admonitions  were  in  vain.” 

The  ass,  who  felt  this  breathing  in  his  ear, 

Did  not  turn  round  to  look,  but  shook 
his  head, 

As  if  he  were  not  pleased  these  words  to 
hear, 

And  contradicted  all  that  had  been  said. 

And  this  made  Gilbert  cry  in  voice  more 
clear, 

“ I know  you  well ; your  hair  is  russet- 
red  ; 

Do  not  deny  it ; for  you  are  the  same 

Franciscan  friar,  and  Timothy  by  name.” 


The  ass,  though  now  the  secret  had  come 
out, 

Was  obstinate,  and  shook  his  head  again; 

Until  a crowd  was  gathered  round  about 
To  hear  this  dialogue  between  the  twain ; 

And  raised  their  voices  in  a noisy  shout 
When  Gilbert  tried  to  make  the  matter 
plain, 

And  flouted  him  and  mocked  him  all  day 
long 

With  laughter  and  with  jibes  and  scraps  of 
song. 

“ If  this  be  Brother  Timothy,”  they  cried, 

“ Buy  him,  and  feed  him  on  the  tender- 
est  grass  ; 

Thou  canst  not  do  too  much  for  one  so 
tried 

As  to  be  twice  transformed  into  an  ass.” 

So  simple  Gilbert  bought  him,  and  untied 
His  halter,  and  o’er  mountain  and  morass 

He  led  him  homeward,  talking  as  he  went 

Of  good  behavior  and  a mind  content. 


NR  NR  Y IVA  DS  IVOR  Til  L ON G FELL  0 IV. 


48  5 


The  children  saw  them  coming,  and  ad- 
vanced, 

Shouting  with  joy,  and  hung  about  his 
neck, — 

Not  Gilbert’s,  but  the  ass’s, — round  him 
danced, 

And  wove  green  garlands  wherewithal  to 
deck 

His  sacred  person ; for  again  it  chanced 
Their  childish  feelings,  without  rein  or 
check, 

Could  not  discriminate  in  any  way 

A donkey  from  a friar  of  Orders  Gray. 

“ O Brother  Timothy,”  the  children  said, 

“ You  have  come  back  to  us  just  as  be- 
fore ; 

We  were  afraid,  and  thought  that  you 
were  dead, 

And  we  should  never  see  you  any  more.” 

And  then  they  kissed  the  white  star  on  his 
head, 

That  like  a birth-mark  or  a badge  he  wore, 

And  patted  him  upon  the  neck  and  face, 

And  said  a thousand  things  with  childish 
grace. 

Thenceforward  and  forever  he  was  known 
As  Brother  Timothy,  and  led  alway 

A life  of  luxury,  till  he  had  grown 

Ungrateful,  being  stuffed  with  corn  and 
hay, 

And  very  vicious.  Then  in  angry  tone, 
Rousing  himself,  poor  Gilbert  said  one  day, 


“ When  simple  kindness  is  misunderstood 
A little  flagellation  may  do  good.” 

His  many  vices  need  not  here  be  told  ; 

Among  them  was  a habit  that  he  had 
Of  flinging  up  his  heels  at  young  and  old, 
Breaking  his  halter,  running  off  like  mad 
O’er  pasture-lands  and  meadow,  wood  and 
wold, 

And  other  misdemeanors  quite  as  bad  ; 
But  worst  of  all  was  breaking  from  his 
shed 

At  night,  and  ravaging  the  cabbage-bed. 

So  Brother  Timothy  went  back  once  more 
To  his  old  life  of  labor  and  distress; 
Was  beaten  worse  than  he  had  been  before  ; 

And  now,  instead  of  comfort  and  caress, 
Came  labors  manifold  and  trials  sore ; 

And  as  his  toils  increased  his  food  grew 
less, 

Until  at  last  the  great  consoler,  Death, 
Ended  his  many  sufferings  with  his  breath. 

Great  was  the  lamentation  when  lie  died ; 

And  mainly  that  he  died  impenitent ; 
Dame  Cicely  bewailed,  the  children  cried, 
The  old  man  still  remembered  the  event 
In  the  French  war,  and  Gilbert  magni- 
fied 

His  many  virtues,  as  he  came  and  went, 
And  said : “ Heaven  pardon  Brother  Tim- 
othy, 

And  keep  us  from  the  sin  of  gluttony.” 


INTERLUDE. 


“ Signor  Luigi,”  said  the  Jew, 

When  the  Sicilian’s  tale  was  told, 

“ The  were-wolf  is  a legend  old, 

But  the  were-ass  is  something  new, 
And  yet  for  one  I think  it  true. 

The  days  of  wonder  have  not  ceased ; 
If  there  are  beasts  in  forms  of  men, 
As  sure  it  happens  now  and  then, 
Why  may  not  man  become  a beast, 

In  way  of  punishment  at  least  ? 

1G10 


“ But  this  I will  not  now  discuss  ; 

I leave  the  theme,  that  we  may 
thus 

Remain  within  the  realm  of  song. 
The  story  that  I told  before, 
Though  not  acceptable  to  all, 

At  least  you  did  not  find  too  long. 
I beg  you,  let  me  try  again, 

With  something  in  a different  vein, 
Before  you  bid  the  curtain  fall. 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Meanwhile  keep  watch  upon  the 
door, 

Nor  let  the  landlord  leave  his  chair, 
Lest  he  should  vanish  into  air, 

And  so  elude  our  search  once  more.” 


Thus  saying,  from  his  lips  he  blew 
A little  cloud  of  perfumed  breath, 
And  then,  as  if  it  were  a clew 
To  lead  his  footsteps  safely  through, 
Began  his  tale  as  followeth. 


THE  SPANISH  JEW'S  SECOND  TALE. 

SCANDERBEG. 


The  battle  is  fought  and  won 
By  King  Ladislaus,  the  Hun, 

In  fire  of  hell  and  death’s  frost, 

On  the  day  of  Pentecost. 

And  in  rout  before  his  path 
From  the  field  of  battle  red 
Flee  all  that  are  not  dead 
Of  the  army  of  Amurath. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  night 
Iskander,  the  pride  and  boast 
Of  that  mighty  Othman  host, 

With  his  routed  Turks,  takes  flight 
From  the  battle  fought  and  lost 
On  the  day  of  Pentecost  ; 

Leaving  behind  him  dead 
The  army  of  Amurath, 

The  vanguard  as  it  led, 

The  rearguard  as  it  fled, 

Mown  down  in  the  bloody  swath 
Of  the  battle’s  aftermath. 

But  he  cared  not  for  Hospodars, 
Nor  for  Baron  or  Voivode, 

As  on  through  the  night  he  rode 
And  gazed  at  the  fateful  stars, 
That  were  shining  overhead  ; 

But  smote  his  steed  Avith  his  staff, 
And  smiled  to  himself,  and  said : 

1 This  is  the  time  to  laugh.” 

In  the  middle  of  the  night, 

In  a halt  of  the  hurrying  flight, 
There  came  a Scribe  of  the  King 
Wearing  his  signet  ring, 

And  said  in  a voice  severe  : 

‘ This  is  the  first  dark  blot 


On  thy  name,  George  Castriot ! 

Alas  ! why  art  thou  here, 

And  the  army  of  Amurath  slain, 

And  left  on  the  battle  plain  ? ” 

And  Iskander  answered  and  said  : 

“ They  lie  on  the  bloody  sod 
By  the  hoofs  of  horses  trod ; 

But  this  was  the  decree 
Of  the  watchers  overhead  ; 

For  the  war  belongeth  to  God, 

And  in  battle  who  are  we, 

Who  are  we,  that  shall  withstand 
The  wind  of  his  lifted  hand  ? ” 

Then  he  bade  them  bind  with  chains 
This  man  of  books  and  brains ; 

And  the  Scribe  said  : “ What  misdeed 
Have  I done,  that,  without  need, 

Thou  doest  to  me  this  thing  ? ” 

And  Iskander  answering 
Said  unto  him  ! “ Not  one 
Misdeed  to  me  hast  thou  done  ; 

But  for  fear  that  thou  shouldst  run 
And  hide  thyself  from  me, 

Have  I done  this  unto  thee. 

“ Now  write  me  a writing,  O Scribe, 
And  a blessing  be  on  thy  tribe ! 

A writing  sealed  with  thy  ring, 

To  King  Amurath's  Pasha 
In  the  city  of  Croia, 

The  city  moated  and  walled, 

That  he  surrender  the  same 
In  the  name  of  my  master,  the  King ; 
For  what  is  writ  in  his  name 
Can  never  be  recalled.” 


IIENR  Y IVA  BS  WOR  TH  L ON  GFJSLL  0 IV. 


48 


And  the  Scribe  bowed  low  in  dread, 
And  unto  Iskander  said  ! 

“ Allah  is  great  and  just, 

But  we  are  as  ashes  and  dust ; 

How  shall  I do  this  thing, 

When  I know  that  my  guilty  head 
Will  be  forfeit  to  the  King  ? ” 

Then  swift  as  the  shooting  star 
The  curved  and  shining  blade 
Of  Iskander’s  scimetar 
From  its  sheath,  with  jewels  bright, 
Shot,  as  he  thundered:  “Write!” 
And  the  trembling  Scribe  obeyed, 
And  wrote  in  the  fitful  glare 
Of  the  bivouac  fire  apart, 

With  the  chill  of  the  midnight  air 
On  his  forehead  white  and  bare, 

And  the  chill  of  death  in  his  heart. 

Then  again  Iskander  cried  : 

“ Now  follow  whither  I ride, 

For  here  thou  must  not  stay. 

Thou  shalt  be  as  my  dearest  friend, 
And  honors  without  end 
Shall  surround  thee  on  every  side, 
And  attend  thee  night  and  day.” 
But  the  sullen  Scribe  replied : 


“ Our  pathways  here  divide  ; 

Mine  leadeth  not  thy  way.” 

And  even  as  he  spoke 

Fell  a sudden  scimetar  stroke, 

When  no  one  else  was  near  ; 

And  the  Scribe  sank  to  the  ground. 
As  a stone,  pushed  from  the  brink 
Of  a black  pool,  might  sink 
With  a sob  and  disappear; 

And  no  one  saw  the  deed ; 

And  in  the  stillness  around 
No  sound  was  heard  but  the  sound 
Of  the  hoofs  of  Iskander’s  steed, 

As  forward  he  sprang  with  a bound. 

Then  onward  he  rode  and  afar, 

With  scarce  three  hundred  men, 
Through  river  and  forest  and  fen, 
O’er  the  mountains  of  Argentar  ; 
And  his  heart  was  merry  within, 
When  he  crossed  the  river  Drill, 
And  saw  in  the  gleam  of  the  morn 
The  White  Castle  Ak-Hissar, 

The  city  Croia  called, 

The  city  moated  and  walled, 

The  city  where  he  was  born,  — 

And  above  it  the  morning  star. 


488 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 


Then  his  trumpeters  in  the  van 
On  their  silver  bugles  blew, 

And  in  crowds  about  him  ran 
Albanian  and  Turkoman, 

That  the  sound  together  drew. 

And  he  feasted  with  his  friends, 

And  when  they  were  warm  with  wine, 
He  said : “ O friends  of  mine, 

Behold  what  fortune  sends, 

And  what  the  fates  design  ! 

King  Amurath  commands 
That  my  father’s  wide  domain, 

This  city  and  all  its  lands, 

Shall  be  given  to  me  again.  ” 


Anon  from  the  castle  walls 
The  crescent  banner  falls, 

And  the  crowd  beholds  instead, 

Like  a portent  in  the  sky, 

Iskander’s  banner  fly, 

The  Black  Eagle  with  double  head  ; 
And  a shout  ascends  on  high, 

For  men’s  souls  are  tired  of  the  Turks, 
And  their  wicked  ways  and  works, 
That  have  made  of  Ak-Hissar 
A city  of  the  plague  ; 

And  the  loud,  exultant  cry 
That  echoes  wide  and  fai- 
ls : “ Long  live  Scanderbeg  ! ” 


U 


Then  to  the  Castle  White 
He  rode  in  regal  state, 

And  entered  in  at  the  gate 
In  all  his  arms  bedight, 

And  gave  to  the  Pasha 
Who  ruled  in  Croia 
The  writing  of  the  King, 

Sealed  with  his  signet  ring. 

And  the  Pasha  bowed  his  head, 
And  after  a silence  said : 

Allah  is  just  and  great ! 

I yield  to  the  will  divine, 


It  was  thus  Iskander  came 
Once  more  unto  his  own  ; 

And  the  tidings,  like  the  flame 
Of  a conflagration  blown 
By  the  winds  of  summer,  ran, 

Till  the  land  was  in  a blaze, 

And  the  cities  far  and  near, 

Sayeth  Ben  Joshua  Ben  Meir, 

In  his  Book  of  the  Words  of  the  Days, 
“ Were  taken  as  a man 
Would  take  the  tip  of  his  ear.  ” 


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